


saw your bones on the road

by alamorn



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Background Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier-Centric, M/M, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: Geralt's said a lot of nasty things to Jaskier over the years, but he doesn't normally follow them up by getting caught in a war before they reconcile.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 160
Kudos: 753





	1. The Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I started writing this about one headcanon, and it's....grown on me.
> 
> Geralt won't appear in this in person for a while, so when I say it's Jaskier-centric, I mean it.
> 
> Chapter warning for off-screen child death.

It wasn't, if Jaskier was being honest, the worst thing Geralt had ever said to him. It was certainly the worst in a _while_ , but there was a reason they would avoid each other for months or years at a time, and that reason was Geralt's inability to manage his feelings and/or temper. When Jaskier was feeling generous, he considered how many times Geralt had been stoned for trying to care about people. When he wasn't, which was more frequent, he got very drunk and wrote some very mean songs. One time, the song had been mean enough, and so thinly veiled, that Geralt had actually sent him a letter. It hadn't said anything like _sorry_ , or _I heard what you said about me, and you have a point_ , or _All my closest friends and loved ones have died terrible deaths and I think I'm cursed, please forgive me for trying to drive you away_ , all of which Jaskier (generously) read into it. Instead, it had said, _Really, Jaskier?_

That was it. That was the extent of the letter. And that was still the closest Geralt had ever come to an apology as such, with words, and acknowledgement of feelings and all that. Generally, the way it went was Jaskier would sulk for a month or two, or maybe a year, depending on how rude Geralt had been (he assumed Geralt sulked for much longer, as Geralt was a sulky sort of person), and then he didn't so much seek Geralt out as let destiny waft them together. He would hear of a witcher, and decide, rather than leaving the story to another, that he needed a new song, and set out, unfocused, until they bumped into each other once again.

The worst of it, this time, was that he couldn't help but feel Geralt was right. He had gotten Geralt into Calanthe's court, and it was his own foolishness with the djinn that had led them to Yennefer. He'd long known that Geralt held many things against him -- his snoring, some of his bawdier songs, and the time he lost all of their money in a swamp, for example -- but he hadn't realized that those counted among them. He hadn't realized they outweighed the good times.

And likely they didn't. He'd watched the fight with Yennefer, and known it was a sensitive moment, and blundered in anyway.

The thing was -- because, otherwise, this was part and parcel of friendship with Geralt -- but the thing _was_ , Jaskier was getting older. When he was eighteen, or twenty-two, or thirty-five, it hadn't much mattered when he and Geralt fell out, because he knew they would have time to make up. But he'd passed forty and didn't think he had much travel left in him. His back hurt, and there was a pain in his knee that wasn't going away, and the cold had moved in to his bones and didn't seem likely to leave any time soon.

He thought fondly of his office in Oxenfurt, the students that respected him, the fireplace that always had cords of wood stacked next to it. The soft bed, and the hot bath.

So. This time, Geralt would have to come to him.

Dismally, Jaskier did not expect that to happen before he died. But he was too old, now, to run around after a man who neither aged, nor apologized. One would be acceptable. The two together were unbearable.

Once he had the story, including a few lovely details from Borch, he began the long road back to Oxenfurt.

He worked on the song each evening. It would be a heartrending ballad, about the last golden dragon, with majesty and legacy, and all those themes that the audience always ate up, except he kept finding himself working on something else instead. It was the song he'd begun about Countess de Stael, post-most recent breakup, but it had transformed in the intervening weeks. He wasn't certain now exactly how he meant it, except that it was about Yennefer. He couldn't blame her, exactly, for her anger.

But he understood Geralt, too. If he'd been able to bind Geralt to him with more than persistence, he didn't know he wouldn't. But just now, he was glad of his freedom to leave and felt sorry for Yennefer, being trapped with Geralt. That only increased as he made his way down the mountain alone. There were only so many paths -- Borch and Téa and Véa could fly, he assumed, though he should have asked, while he had the chance, as it seemed unlikely he'd have another -- and the dwarfs were a day behind him, taking their time, but he could see their fire at night sometimes. That Geralt had not overtaken him meant he was sulking at the top. That, or making his own way down, rather than following the trail, which seemed dangerous enough that even angry as he was, Jaskier hoped Geralt had the good sense not to.

Going directly, and going alone, Oxenfurt was a long journey. When Jaskier found himself singing a ghost back into her grave -- the third such interruption in two weeks, a terrible rate -- he had to admit that maybe Geralt was right. He did have a knack for peculiar situations. Though it still seemed unfair for a monster hunter to blame a _bard_ for running into the weirder parts of the world.

He let the last note hang in the air, then covered the strings with his hand, silencing it. The ghost looked up at him, turned from a beast with many teeth to a little girl, eyes heavy, throat mottled with strangling bruises. "Why did you stop?" she asked.

"Am I cursed?" he asked, not sure a ghost was the one to ask, but not sure who was, either. There weren't many mages in Oxenfurt, though there were cranks aplenty at the university. He certainly wasn't going to ride three hundred miles to Tretogor to seek out the king's sorceress.

The ghost blinked up at him. "I don't know. You smell nice."

"Thank you, sweetheart." He paused, not sure if curses had a smell. Or destiny? Geralt had certainly only ever smelled of earthly things, no matter what he'd put in his songs. "What's your name, dove?"

"Millie," she said, and rested her insubstantial head on his knee. Absently, he petted her hair, but when his hand dipped through her skull with only a moment of confusing resistance, he stopped. "Can you sing some more?"

"One more song," he said, "and then I have to go."

"No," Millie said, head snapping up. "No, you can't go, everyone _goes_ , everyone _leaves me_."

"Millie," Jaskier started, and stopped. He wasn't excellent with even living children. Dead ones seemed likely to have additional challenges. "Millie, where are your parents?"

"Dead," she said. "They died and they left me, and now you're leaving _too_."

"Can't you go with them?" _Geralt_ would know what to do, Jaskier realized glumly. "Do you... see a light, or something?"

"I can't go, I don't have my dolly," she said.

Well, he should have guessed it was something like that. "How about I go find your dolly for you? And then you can join your parents?"

"You won't come back," she accused, teeth growing sharp once more, wind whipping up.

"I will," he said, keeping his voice reassuringly calm with the help of long practice. "See, I'll leave my lute with you. I can't leave my lute behind."

Her teeth dulled in her mouth and the wind calmed, though it didn't die. He watched the leaves sway on the tree he was leaning against for a moment, before turning back to her. "Can you tell me where it might be?"

"They burned our house down," she said. "I dropped Dolly as we ran."

"All right," Jaskier said, standing and stretching out his back, feeling the coming autumn in the ache of his knees. He set his lute down carefully against the tree. "Take care of her for me, Millie, she was a gift, and there's no other like her. Can you do that for me?"

Millie nodded seriously, trailing an ephemeral hand over the strings, pulling out a soft series of notes. She beamed up at him. "I can do that for you."

"I'll be back soon," he promised, and took off for the closest town. It had been his original aim for the night, but now that he knew they killed children, he felt less inclined.

Lindenvale was a poor little town, and there were more burned houses than he'd expected.

"What happened here?" he asked a woman doing laundry in front of her own ramshackle cottage. There were gaps between the boards, poorly plugged with mud.

She paused in her scrubbing, eyeing him up and down. He felt unbearably gaudy all of a sudden, in his red silk. "Plague," she said. "Might not want to linger."

"Is it passed?" he asked. If it wasn't, well, Filavandral's lute had treated him well for many years, but he could get a new one if he needed.

"No new deaths in a couple months," she said. "Burned out the worst hit, that helped."

"Oh," Jaskier said. Well, that was better than murdering a family for fun, he supposed. "Did you know there's a ghost in the woods just north of you? Says her name's Millie."

The woman sighed. He'd put her in her thirties as he approached, but suddenly she looked much older, face drawn in hard lines. "Aye, we know. She's killed three already."

"Well, if you could point me towards her family's home, I think I can get rid of her for you. Poor thing wants her doll."

"Poor thing," the woman snorted. "Did you not hear me? Those fine clothes too loud? She's killed three."

"She was _strangled_ ," Jaskier said, anger leaping hot up his throat. "You didn't just chase her out, someone killed her with their _hands_. How old was she? Six?"

The woman stared at him, long enough that he wasn't certain if she would spit on him or show him the way. Finally, she jerked her head in the direction of one of the burnt out buildings, far enough from the rest that it's burning would not have threatened the whole tinder trap town. For some reason, Jaskier doubted they'd truly been hit harder by the plague.

Summoning up every reserve of his manners and a great deal of spite, he swept her a bow. "Thank you, for your most gracious manners."

Now she spat.

"Lovely," Jaskier muttered as he walked to the burnt home. It had been reduced to a few charred beams and half a roof, resting within the former footprint. He circled the building once, then again, then a third time, before he found the doll, half buried in the dirt.

The ground must have been muddy, the night they fled, or any of the nights after, he supposed -- Jaskier was no tracker, not like Geralt, and he'd never seen much reason to learn. It took him several minutes to dig out the doll, and when he held in his hands, he took a moment to be furiously angry on Millie's behalf.

Then he got up and went back to her to make the trade. His lute still rested against the tree, but he didn't go to it right away, holding up her doll for her to see and going to the bones a few feet away. It wasn't all of them -- weather and animals had scattered them, but her ribs were there, and her skull, though her jaw had disappeared, and only one limb remained.

"What are you doing?" she asked, still curled around his lute.

"I thought you might like to be buried," he said.

"You would... do that for me?" Millie asked.

"If you want to help, I won't stop you. I'm not much for digging, I must admit." And he wasn't -- he had no shovel, and night was coming fast.

"I can't," she said, shaking her head frantically. "I can't, I can't--"

"Then don't," Jaskier cut in. "Just keep me company while I dig. I get bored easily, you know, you'll have to tell me stories."

Millie stared at him. "I can... I can do that."

Jaskier searched for a wide, flat rock that he could dig with, to save what was left of his nails. "Or I can tell you stories. I have quite a few, you know."

"Why did you ask if you were cursed?" she asked, slinking over to him as he began to hack out a trough in the soft ground.

"Something a friend said to me," he said, taking a little bit of petty pleasure in referring to Geralt as a friend when he wasn't around to claim they weren't. Their parting words didn't change that -- if Jaskier had been capable of considering Geralt a friend after the time Geralt had told him that he'd rather have been killed by a bruxa than stuck listening to Jaskier's singing as he recovered, he was capable of considering him a friend after being accused of shoveling the shit that Geralt took so much time wallowing in. "I have a tendency towards an interesting life."

Millie sighed wistfully. "I wish had an interesting life. I just milked goats until I died."

"Yes," Jaskier said thoughtfully, "that is a curse of its own, isn't it? You know, one time he told me I only followed him around because no one else could stand me for long."

"That's not very nice," Millie said.

"No, it's not. I'm not always very nice, either, though."

"You seem nice to me." Millie looked up at him through her eyelashes, almost shy for a girl whose bones had so recently been in his hands.

"Well, it's easy to be nice to you," he said, not telling her that he'd considered walking away without his lute when he'd learned of the plague. "Geralt, on the other hand, makes it hard to be nice. I think he does it on purpose. I think he thinks he doesn't deserve it."

"Everyone deserves to be treated well. Except Elit, he put mud in my hair and I hope he _dies_."

Jaskier laughed, which was probably not the appropriate response, given that she had, actually, killed three people. But she was a girl, as well as a ghost, and he'd always liked children, in a vague sort of way. He didn't much want any of his own, but he liked their straightforward sincerity, and the absolutely ridiculous things they said. "We all die someday, don't you fret."

By now the grave was almost a hand deep. He considered pushing the bones in and calling it good enough, but it only took a glance at Millie to tell him that was the wrong decision. Part of it was moral -- the poor thing deserved better -- and part of it was that he was pretty certain a shallow grave wouldn't satisfy Millie's spirit, and he didn't particularly want to be pursued by her. He kept digging.

The sun was setting and lighting the woods up with red and orange. "Seems I'm going to have to camp here," he told her. "Hope you don't mind the company."

"No," she said, hugging her knees. "I've been lonely."

"Haven't we all," he said. He was out of breath and his shoulders ached, and the hole was still less than a foot deep. Geralt and his muscles would have come in handy about now. Jaskier scowled at the stone and the dirt and the bones. He couldn't even go a minute without thinking about Geralt. It really was awful, how twisted up he got about the man. A muse shouldn't have this sort of hold on a poet.

"You promise I'll find my parents?" Jaskier blinked back to the moment, the stone in his hands, the ghost at his side.

"I have it on good authority that once you're at peace, you want for nothing," he told her, which was no more than three-quarters bullshit, but what did a six year old care about musings on the afterlife, especially as she was -- and this wasn't the best turn of phrase, but he was tired -- living the worst of the options?

"What will you do, when I'm gone?" she asked him.

"Keep walking, I suppose. I was on my way to Oxenfurt when I found you, and that's still my destination. In Oxenfurt, one doesn't have to shit in the woods, and there's hot baths whenever you ask for one. And there's _women_ \--" he glanced over at her and swallowed the rest of the sentence.

"I've never been that far away in my _life_ ," she said wistfully. He didn't mention that she was no longer in her life. "It must be amazing to travel. The world is so much bigger than I can see."

"Well," Jaskier said, thinking of the Cintran court, the ruins of Dol Blathanna, and well, he hadn't liked Rinde much, and there were a whole lot of places that were only okay, but he loved Novigrad, and he'd brushed around the edges of Brokilon Forest, which had been so beautiful it still haunted him, though Geralt had caught him by the collar when he talked about going in and snarled in his face that if he valued his idiotic skin, he'd stay out. And Geralt, who had been with him through much of it, showing him all the parts of the world he wouldn't have otherwise seen. Or at least survived. Damn him, he still loved the idiot. He'd thought he'd gotten over that half a decade ago. "Do you want to hear about it?"

"Yes," she said, eager, immediate.

So Jaskier told her stories the rest of the night. The ruins Filavandral haunted, the swamps of Velen, the crowded streets of Novigrad and Oxenfurt. The cavernous halls of the university, and how they filled with music. And he told her about Geralt, who he was already halfway ready to forgive, fool that he was.

And when the grave was four feet deep, and the moon was high, and Jaskier's voice was a sore rasp, and his nails were splintered and filthy, he said, "Good bye, Millie. It was nice to meet you."

"Thank you," she said, as he gathered her bones and her doll and lowered them into the hole.

He wiped his sweaty forehead, about to tell her that it was all in a days work for a gallant like him, but she was gone. Instead he sighed and began to fill the grave, pushing the dirt in with his hands.

He didn't even want to think about how his clothes would look in the unforgiving light of day. Instead, he slept uneasily, though his dreams were not haunted by more than the normal sorts of phantoms, and when he rose in the morning, he set his boots on the road and determined to make no more detours, not even for sweet, sad ghosts.

It was time for Jaskier to go home, where his only concerns of curses were when three of his songs flopped in a row, or too many of his students were off-key.


	2. Nilfgaard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song Jaskier sings, [Red Apple](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjaMe0I9n6E), which is an old Polish folk song, whose lyrics, even through Google Translate, seemed appropriate!

Six months after the dragon hunt, Jaskier was about to go out of his skull with boredom. Oh, his students were _fine_ , all studious and hardworking, and none of them even a little bit of fun. He'd composed a few new songs, seduced a few highborn ladies, gotten into and out of several spots of trouble, and none of it was the least bit satisfying.

This was the sort of thing he should have grown out of, he told himself sternly. There was a war coming. And so was his forty-fourth birthday. He shouldn't be wanting to hit the road, search out Geralt, harangue him for a week, and use him as safe passage through Nilfgaard's troops.

And no, his nerves were _not_ about the fact that Nilfgaard was heading inexorably towards Cintra, and Geralt's Child Surprise, and that Geralt, crotchety old fool that he was, would not abandon his child to Nilfgaard's tender embrace.

He held out another three months before he requested sabbatical.

Within a week of the granting, he was heading south, for Cintra. Not fast, at first. He took the scenic route, watching as troops mobilized, finding the garrisons. Temeria was going to war, and her boys were excited. No longer a boy, Jaskier felt nothing but dread. He had written enough dirges for one lifetime, and he saw no jigs in his future.

The third company he met, the captain accused him of being a Nilfgaardian spy, and he had to slip out of a pair of rusty shackles in the middle of the night (which did _not_ fill him with confidence for Temeria's chances), and after that he hurried along.

But not fast enough. He heard of Cintra's fall fifty miles from the capital, well within the borders that no longer meant anything, turned back by a flood of refugees, dirty and hungry and desperate. He let them sweep him along for a few days, playing each night whatever songs were requested, feeling rather like he'd been hit with the flat of an ax and seeing the refugees who looked like they'd been hit with the edge.

He didn't know how to find Geralt in this mess. And so, he did not _quite_ give up, but did something similar. He set his feet for Novigrad, figuring any news that came would come that way.

But whatever curse that rode his back -- at this point it seemed easiest to assume there was one -- struck once more. A forward unit of the Nilfgaardians overtook him on the way, and did not kill him. Instead, the man who grabbed him took one look at the lute on his back and broke into a grin. "A bard!" he said. "Wonderful! You're hired."

"I'm not actually looking for work at the moment, but thank you for the kind offer," Jaskier tried, but the man just kept smiling.

"You can sing for us, or we can kill you," he said, looking equally happy with either.

"I do love to sing," Jaskier said, and the man nodded.

"I thought you might. This way, then. Don't you worry, bard, you'll be fed and watered, and only shackled if you try to run." He grinned as if it were a funny joke. Jaskier forced an insincere smile back, feeling nauseous. "Do you have a name, by the way? You can call me Captain Stildade."

"The bard Jaskier, flower of Oxenfurt," Jaskier said, as grandiosely as he was capable at the moment, which was a sad little half bow.

"Jaskier?" The Captain frowned at him.

"Are you a fan? I hadn't realized my fame stretched so far south." Despite himself, the concept was gratifying.

"No, I just thought -- isn't jaskier some sort of weed?"

Jaskier wilted once more. For a moment, he'd forgotten this wasn't the Nilfgaardian's first language. "Debatably, it's a flower," he said.

"What do the farmers say?"

Jaskier glanced around, absently counting the tents that were going up. They were still on the front, but as they'd walked, weapons had gotten incrementally farther from hands. The army was massive, the Black Sun everywhere he looked. His stomach, already twisted, gave another stab. "A weed," he admitted.

Stildade laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "A perfect name for a Nilfgaardian bard. Your songs will be everywhere, as we are."

"They already are," Jaskier said sullenly. "Have you heard _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_? That one's mine."

"Can't say I have," Stildade said. "But look! You know your first song for the night."

Jaskier had already been planning on getting out as soon as he could, but now he was hoping to burn some things down on his way. "What's the pay, for a Nilfgaardian bard?" he said instead.

"Life," Stildade said, smiling, gesturing across the expanse of tents rising over bloody ground. "An appreciative audience. Food, shelter."

"Money is what I'm asking about, to be vulgar and specific."

"We wouldn't want to sully your performance with a financial component." Stildade dropped a mailed hand on Jaskier's shoulder and squeezed. "Don't you think?"

How lovely it had been, to merely have bread and produce thrown at him. "Of course," he agreed.

When Stildade thrust him into a circle of men, gathered around a well tended fire, he announced, "Boys, I've brought you entertainment. Don't break this one so quickly," with a wink that was the opposite of reassuring.

"Well met, gentlemen," Jaskier said with a half-bow, pulling his lute out towards him. "Any requests tonight?"

"Make me laugh, bard!" one of the men demanded. He had a thick Nilfgaardian accent and a heavier beard than Jaskier had thought Nilfgaardian soldiers were allowed.

"Very well," Jaskier said, and launched into the Fishmonger's Daughter, which was always popular with the rougher crowds. And the gentler ones, if you counted the Lioness of Cintra as one such. Which Jaskier, to be excruciatingly honest, did not.

They kept him singing until his fingers were sore. To wind them down, he started a slow, mournful version of Red Apple.

When he reached the end, he slowed even more, until "I will kiss you, you will kiss me. I won't give you away, you won't give me away," trailed off into the night. When he looked up, most of the soldiers' faces were set in loose, relaxed lines. A few looked near tears.

They were homesick, he realized, as he covered his strings with his hand, stilling the last quivering notes. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that they could be. He'd thought of Nilfgaardians as a mass, a coming plague of locusts, ready to eat the north down to its bones. But they were people, too.

He wasn't sure if that made it worse. To stop his worries, he said, "My throat grows dry, and the night grows long." For emphasis, he yawned.

One of the soldiers, a young man, young enough that his face was bare, with no shadow of a beard, even this late, still spotted, brought him a mug of watered ale.

"Thank you," the boy said, as he passed it to Jaskier, holding for a moment longer than he needed to. "Thank you."

"Oh," Jaskier said, "it was nothing. You should see me with an ensemble."

"It was beautiful," the boy said.

"Byndlef, don't cry on the bard," one of the older men called, though even he was muted. "He's not here of his own will, remember."

"Shut up, Rhoulde, just because you're a bitter old man doesn't mean we all are!"

After that, it devolved into shouting in Nilfgaardian. Stildade reappeared from the dark, taking Jaskier's arm and leading him to a tent. It was Stildade's, which became clear immediately, but Jaskier had enough space to lay down without being tripped over. It was on the rather hard ground, and he stared at Stildade for a long moment.

"I'm rather too old to be sleeping on the ground," he said.

"Then you will lie awake on the ground," Stildade said, smiling blandly.

Unfortunately, Jaskier did just that. He took the long time awake to watch Stildade. How heavy of a sleeper was he? How motivated?

Experimentally, Jaskier stood and headed for the tent flap.

"Where are you going?" Stildade asked, voice thick with sleep. Something panged in Jaskier, something small and deeply embarrassing. What he would have given to hear that from Geralt, pressed together in bed.

"To piss," he said, "unless you would rather I do it here?"

"The latrines are on the edge of camp," Stildade said, "but if you try to run, the guards will shoot you."

Jaskier did not try to run.

\--

During the nights, Jaskier had little freedom. He performed until the men went to bed and there was always someone watching. During the day, during marches and battles, of which he saw more than he wanted, mostly small skirmishes that the Nilfgaardians plowed through, he was beneath notice.

He let the Black Ones carry him along north, counting men and horses and weapons, watching how refugees were swallowed up and made citizens. The process was imperfect, but he could see the calculation in it. Whoever handed down orders knew what they were doing, and it was making its way through the troops. If Nilfgaard was not turned back, he expected they would get ever better, and eventually the peasantry would turn against the kings. For now, they were still burning fields.

There would be a heavy crop of ghouls in the coming season. If Geralt had survived the sack, he would not want for work.

If only he were certain Geralt had survived the sack of Cintra.

He plucked mournfully at his lute as he walked next to a pack wagon, listening to the quartermaster complain that they were outstripping their supply lines, that the commander -- some fool named Cahir, according to the quartermaster -- was letting his hunt for some little girl overcome the sense that had won them so many victories.

"She's just a fucking princess," the quartermaster said, possibly for the fifth time, leaning over to spit over the side of the wagon. Jaskier glared at the glob of spittle that had nearly hit his shoe, and then, finally, his brain started to work.

"The princess of Cintra?" he asked.

"Who else? The idiot went mad after we took Cintra. We thought he'd be pleased, the Lioness killing herself like that, to save herself facing him, but the Cub escaped, and not else matters. Not supplies, not men, not the fact that she can split the damn ground with a shriek. You know how much he's spent on this pursuit?"

"How much?" Jaskier asked. The Lion Cub of Cintra. The Princess. Granddaughter to Calanthe. Geralt's Child Surprise. Well, if Geralt was alive, he was either with her, or searching for her. They were closer than he'd realized. It was a queer feeling, relief and dread. Part of him was still eighteen and full of hero worship, certain that nothing _too_ terrible could happen, if Geralt were near, that there would always be a last minute escape or dashing heroics. The rest of him, forty-four and tired, was incredibly aware that the midst of a war was a different, far more dangerous situation, and that as good as Geralt was at killing monsters, he was somewhat limited when it came to talking to people, and even Geralt could not kill an army singlehandedly.

The quartermaster was still talking, but Jaskier was having difficulty focusing on his words. The army was bleeding money, he picked that up. And they were headed to Sodden Hill, where they were certain to just _bleed_ as well. Cahir had a spy with the mages, and they would be facing a hard battle.

"Though the spy assures us half the mages will run in the night, and if they don't, he'll slit their throats," the quartermaster laughed. "Our mages have steel where these Northern cowards have porridge. They're all mad, of course, but they'll do anything for the crown."

"Would you?" Jaskier asked absently.

"Of course," the quartermaster said, insulted. "It's an honor to serve the Emperor! He overthrew the Usurper with naught but courage and the support of the gods."

"Tell me about the Emperor," Jaskier said. "Up in our barbaric hinterlands, we get so little news from south of Nazair."

"Oh, we don't have long enough for me to tell you proper," said the quartermaster. "It would take days to sing his praises as they should be, but we'll be encamping in only hours."

"Oh," Jaskier said faintly, as he hadn't realized what he was asking for. True believers, though, that was bad. One hoped for the invading army to have no backbone and less determination, but if they believed in the cause, or at least the king, from general to quartermaster, there was little chance of them getting discouraged and going home with their tails between their legs.

If all Jaskier could hope for was that the Nilfgaardians would choke as they swallowed the North, he would hope for it fiercely.

"He was cursed, you know. That's how we know the gods are with him. The Usurper had him cursed and thrown out, like he was nothing more than trash. Should have had him killed, he didn't want to end up on a stake. Our Emperor, he's more than just god-touched, he's _wise_. You know how much better the roads have gotten under him?" The quartermaster stopped and waited, as if it were a real question, as if Jaskier could have any possible way of knowing the conditions of the roads in Nilfgaard, both before and after the meteoric rise of this new Emperor.

"Enlighten me," he said, drier than he should have, but the quartermaster was too eager to notice.

"Before, you couldn't make it more than ten miles a day with a loaded wagon, and that was if you were lucky. Dirt and mud and broken stones. And our Emperor, first thing he did was lay real stone roads, smooth as good butter. A wagon train can top twenty miles a day on them. Makes it easier to supply the front, I'll tell you _that_ for free."

And Jaskier would wager all he had that was _why_ this Emperor had done it. Not for his citizens, but for his armies. And to keep his soldiers busy, when they weren't at war. There was a reason the Northern countries didn't keep large standing armies, and expense wasn't all of it.

"Hey, mayhaps you're the one to write his song," the quartermaster said. It was almost insulting how little involvement he needed from Jaskier to keep the conversation going.

Oh. Oh _no_. Was that how Geralt felt about _him_? Jaskier resolved immediately to make Geralt contribute more to their conversations, so he didn't feel replaceable by a plank of wood.

"Yeah," the quartermaster said, warming to the idea. "That's it, that's why Stildade picked you up. It was the gods, wanting a proper song for Emperor var Emreis."

"I always knew I was meant for great things," Jaskier said, trying not to sound as gloomy as he felt.

"Ah, well, after this battle, you'll have fodder enough for a dozen songs," the quartermaster told him. "It'll be a route, just you wait. And when you sing of Nilfgaardian battle prowess, all those barbarian kings will tremble in their boots."

"Lovely," Jaskier muttered, then louder, "how close are we?"

"Oh, close. Supplies stay back from the front."

"I'd like to see it," Jaskier said, thinking quickly.

The quartermaster laughed. "You? A bard? You'll do nothing at the front but die."

It was a fair enough assessment, but Jaskier didn't like his chances at the back much either. "How am I to write a song of a battle I didn't see? I'll stay out of the way, of course, but I must have a view. Stildade won't let me go off alone, but surely you can spare a man. How can I praise the Emperor's army on hearsay alone? It would make the song hollow, and of course we want only the best for the Emperor. If I die, it wasn't meant to be. Surely the gods take his reputation into account, just as they do his life."

The quartermaster grunted thoughtfully. "Mayhaps what you say makes sense. I'll see what I can do."

\--

The man the quartermaster found for him was barely a man at all, but the boy who'd thanked him the first night. Every night that he'd sung, the boy had sought him out, though he hadn't approached again, too shy or ashamed of how openly homesick he'd been. 

"You're to be my escort?" Jaskier asked. At least the boy would be easier to escape than one of the more experienced soldiers. 

"I am, sir bard," the boy said, eyes wide and almost worshipful. "That song you sang last night -- it reminded me of my sweetheart, back in Metinna."

"You're from Metinna?" Jaskier asked. "Not Nilfgaard proper?"

"I'm as Nilfgaardian as the rest of them," the boy said, eyes flaring. "I wouldn't be fighting for Nilfgaard, elsewise. Heartlanders have sticks up their arses, I'm not _lesser_ because I come from a province."

Was this how Nilfgaard chewed and swallowed? Made the sons of her conquered enemies into her own? Jaskier's throat went tight with nausea. "Tell me your name again."

"Byndlef," the boy said. "Byndlef of Metinna, and I'll acquit myself in battle and bring home a medal and marry my love and it will all be like a song." He said it with the sort of steel jawed determination that told Jaskier that the boy knew he would die, suspected it would be soon, and he needed to tell himself a story with a happier end so he didn't run screaming into the woods.

"Well met, Byndlef of Metinna," Jaskier said. "My bard's name is Jaskier, but my given name is Julian." It was the only gift he had to give, and he wasn't sure he wanted to give it. It felt rather like opening his armor in the midst of the army, but it wasn't like he would ransom for much, even if they knew who he truly was. He was only the unfavorite cousin of people with money and connections.

"Well met, Julian," Byndlef said, almost blushing.

He was so _young_. Jaskier pitied him, though he knew he shouldn't. 

Byndlef did not seem to notice, and led him to an overlook, not far from where he claimed battle would commence. "We've mages of our own," he said, "and they'll begin the assault soon. During the night, while the sleep." Byndlef smiled. "They think we're farther back than we are. That was the mages, too."

The speed with which the army had pressed forward made sense, knowing that. Jaskier nodded, trying not to look sick.

They lay there, on their stomachs among the trees, staring over Sodden Hill, and waited for the lights within the keep to go dark. Then, very late, or very early, when Jaskier's eyes were heavy with exhaustion, and each blink lasted longer than the one before, Byndlef nudged him.

"There, look," Byndlef breathed, and Jaskier squinted, found a light in the darkness. It rose, brighter and brighter, until it arched into a fall, heading straight for the keep. And there is stopped, hovering, moments before impact. If Jaskier had been able to breathe around his fear, he could have written a ballad about it. The red glare, the impersonal stars, the first pale fingers of dawn. There was certainly a song there, though he didn't know yet how it ended.

The light hurtled sideways, away from the keep, and burst, lighting up the landscape briefly. Were those soldiers, filling the woods beneath them? Or were they just twisted shadows?

Throughout the night, the assault continued, but did not change. It was only with the coming of light that the battlefield shifted. Mist rose, unnatural and thick and choking, even from here, where it thinned with the height of the mountain. 

Jaskier hadn't eaten since the night before, but he was glad of it, watching the squadrons fill the space before the keep. It would be a butchery, what happened here. If he had any food in his stomach, he would only throw it all up.

Byndlef, beside him, was anxious, though not for the same reasons as Jaskier. "I should be down there," he said, over and over. "How am I to get glory sitting up here, hiding in the woods."

Absently, Jaskier said, "I'll put you in my song," and that settled the boy for a bit, though not for long. 

Together, they watched men fall, untouched, retching. When he was able to tear his eyes from the spectacle of war, he saw how pale Byndlef was, lips so tightly pressed together they were white. "Never fought mages before?" Jaskier asked.

Byndlef shook his head. "Not this many."

Then the Northern mages had bombs too, more than the Nilfgaardians, and more effective. Men fell, and screamed. Even here, Jaskier could hear the screaming. 

What songs were there, to write about war? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this, Jaskier writes the fantasy version of the Star-Spangled Banner, but he feels like, pretty weird about it.
> 
> also I'm on [tumblr](http://www.alamorn.tumblr.com) and will probably be very bored during self-isolation, so come say hi!


	3. Yennefer

There was fire everywhere. There was no one to stop him running, because there was no one left alive this far forward, and none of the men coming up from behind were thinking of anything but surviving. He'd left Byndlef behind, gagging on his own blood, reaching out for Jaskier with a pale and shaking hand, and Jaskier had looked at him and said, "Sorry," and _run_.

"Shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshit," Jaskier chanted, making his way carefully across the field of fire. The gate had been bashed open, a sorceress fallen in front of it, surrounded by roots and stems and formerly growing things, and he picked his way through. A guard tried to stop him, then looked harder at him and let him through.

"Thank you," he said, "I promise I'm not Nilfgaardian, and I have some information that might be interesting to your commander, if you could point me in that direction."

"Commander's dead," the man said, near swaying with exhaustion. "And the sorceress that was directing all of them is gone too. Saw her light up the field. She saved us, took the fire from here."

Jaskier looked around at the soot and scorch marks on the walls. The place had been on fire? He believed it. There was a song there, if he cared to look. There were too many songs, and all of them made him sick. "Is there anyone I can talk to?"

The man shrugged helplessly. "Everyone who can walk is helping with the wounded. The lookout spotted Northern armies coming, when they get here, I'm sure they'd be interested in anything you can tell them."

"All right, then," Jaskier said. "I'm not much with medicine, so I'll find a place out of the way." He knew how to stitch a wound at least semi-competently, as Geralt had needed the occasional helping hand, but injuries made him nauseous, so he planned on staying far away.

"You can hold bandages," the man said, locking a strong hand around his elbow and tugging him along.

So Jaskier ended up walking between rows of the wounded, sleeve pressed over his nose to muffle the smell of blood and offal. There were so _many_ of them -- guts spilling out, limbs missing, flesh hanging in shreds. And there, propped up in a corner, gown bloody, skin gray with exhaustion, was Yennefer, as unattractive as he'd ever seen her, which meant she was only stunning, rather than breathtaking.

"Yennefer?" he said, dropping his arm from his nose and picking his way quickly towards her. "Are you still alive? Or do I need to figure out who's carrying corpses around here?"

"Whoever finds them, I believe," she said, focusing on him only with difficulty. "Jaskier. You're here."

"Well, I heard history was happening, and you know how I hate to miss out. You look awful."

Her eyes slid closed once more. "Have you seen Tissaia?"

"Tissaia? I don't know any Tissaia. Is she another sorceress? I haven't seen any others."

"Shit," Yennefer said, but there was no energy to it, no feeling.

Deeply uncomfortable and more than a little nervous, Jaskier sat next to her, shoulder pressing against hers. She clearly felt as bad as she looked, because she didn't pull away or threaten him, just slumped further into him. She was burning hot, even through his shirt and her dress. Concerned, he pressed a hand to her forehead and hissed. "What happened?" he asked. "You feel like the heart of a fire."

"I was the heart of a fire," she said. "It was too much chaos. Stop touching me."

"I'll stop when you can make me," he said, loosening the throat of her gown and pulling out a handkerchief, damping it with water from the skin he'd stolen from the quartermaster's wagon, and pressing the cool cloth to her throat.

She sighed, unable to pretend disaffection. "The keep was on fire. I took it and gave it back to the Nilfgaardians."

"That sounds fairly impressive," Jaskier said, damping the handkerchief once more. She'd baked it dry already. Before he screwed the cap back on, he pressed it to her lips, poured a trickle in, watched with no small amazement as steam rose out of her mouth. "Is it impressive? Are you going to die?"

"Everything I do is impressive," she said, but her heart wasn't in it. "It seems likely."

"I'd really rather you didn't." He thought about telling her that Geralt would be broken up about it, but that seemed unlikely to cheer her. As bad a note as he and Geralt had parted on, it had not given him reason to doubt their entire relationship, just his own sense. Yennefer was not so lucky.

"Funny," she rasped. "I'd have thought you would be happy to see me gone."

"Come now," he said, though if you'd asked him at certain other points of his life, he would have agreed with her. "You saved my life, let me return the favor."

"If you must," she said, and slid into an uneasy unconsciousness.

When he'd cared for Geralt after a particularly bad hunt, he'd had to stitch a few wounds, force the man into a bath now and again, and keep a bucket handy as he vomited black sludge. At no point had Geralt been non-responsive. Jaskier was used to being told what to do, and, staring at the rapid shuttling of Yennefer's eyes behind her lids, he wished that he was being told now. But a look around told him that there were no available medics, and Yennefer's body, at least, was whole.

"Well," he said, hoping that if he at least talked to _himself_ it would be less terrifying. "Well, that's just rude. Ohhhh, what do you do with a fever? Sweat it out?" He pressed a hand to her dry forehead. "She's not sweating. Okay. Well. Cool her down." He stood, easing Yennefer off his shoulder and leaning her carefully back against the wall so she didn't slide down and break her skull. "Is there a well?" he called to the nearest person who looked like they could remember their own name.

The woman frowned, then pointed, and Jaskier upended his waterskin over Yennefer's head. She sputtered briefly back to consciousness, and he said, "Don't.... move," although she didn't quite look capable of movement. Then, more relevantly, "And don't kill me when you're feeling better. I'll take it very personally."

"I won't commit to that," she slurred.

"Fair enough," Jaskier said, mostly to himself, as he headed to the well. He refilled his waterskin and carried a full bucket over.

When he was about to tip it onto her, she looked up at him, eyes narrowed, steam rising from her skin, dress almost dry once more. "If you throw that on me, you'll _wish_ I had just castrated you."

"You would be more threatening if you could stand," he told her, and dumped the bucket over her head.

She shrieked with rage, but he'd been right. She couldn't stand, and the water evaporated quickly off her burning skin. When she bared her teeth at him, he smiled back. "It's so good to work together again," he said.

He walked the bucket back, filled it once more, and upon his return, found Yennefer struggling to her feet, dress caked in mud, using the wall for support. " _Don't_ ," she said, but the dress was already drying at collar and wrists, so he shrugged and tossed the water over her once more. "I'm going to kill you," she said, dripping. But it was taking longer for her to dry this time. And little as Jaskier knew about magic or medicine, that seemed like a good sign.

"I would be delighted to see you try," he told her, genuinely meaning it. Well, half-genuinely. Jaskier had no death wish.

She flicked her fingers at him, but the only thing that happened was a droplet of water hit his shirt. He wasn't sure if that had been her intention or not, but she didn't look consternated enough at his still standing for him to think it had been a real attempt to kill him. Maybe maim or humiliate a little, but Jaskier had traveled with Geralt for a long while, and taught teenagers when he wasn't on the road. He was used to both threats.

"Feeling better?" he asked her.

She scowled at him.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Tissaia," she said again. "I need to find her."

"Who is this Tissaia?" Jaskier asked, offering her his arm as she lurched from the wall. She ignored it for a moment, then sagged hard sideways, and when he caught her, she didn't struggle away from him.

"Rectoress of Aretuza," she said. "She..." Yennefer paused. "She's the reason I'm here."

"Well," Jaskier said. "I'll help you look, but you owe me the story."

Yennefer didn't quite lean on him, but he took as much of her weight as she allowed. Her free hand pressed to the bloody hole in her dress and stayed there.

"Where are we going?" Jaskier asked, since she was walking with purpose enough that he assumed there was a destination. That she sagged more into him with each step seemed beneath mentioning. He was unused to having the upper hand with Yennefer, and did not plan to overplay it, or at least not yet.

"To find Tissaia."

"Shouldn't we, you know, deal with that wound in your side, first? Just because you're not on fire anymore doesn't mean you're _well_."

"She took dimeritium to the face," Yennefer snapped. "She's defenseless and alone. She needs me."

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" Somehow, Jaskier suspected that Yennefer felt very much about Tissaia as he did Geralt. It was rather gratifying, to find he was not the only fool around.

"Shut up," she said. "Your opinion is not needed."

"Oh, I would never make you wait until you _needed_ my opinion," Jaskier said, supporting her with both hands now and trying to draw her to a seat. "I'm generous that way. Give, give, give, that's me, even for ungrateful sorceresses like you."

"The day I am grateful for your prattling," she said, gasping, as he lowered her to the ground, "is the day that I die."

He stared at her, and the fresh red seeping into her gown, from where she'd ripped her scab. "So today, then, if you don't sit down and let someone sew you up."

She bared her teeth at him, and he understood, fully and completely, why Geralt loved her. They were exactly as stupid as each other. He laughed helplessly, squatting before her as she glared. "I promise, taking help from me will be less painful in the long run."

Yennefer grunted, unconvinced. But she stopped struggling. "Don't cut my dress. I don't have any others."

"Oh, you think I'll stitch you up? That's more trust than I deserve or want. I'm going to find a doctor. Stay _put_."

She grabbed his hand as he rose. "No," she said, "you do it. Surely you've closed a wound before."

"Not in the gut," he said. He had only stitched wounds for Geralt that Geralt could not reach, and he'd done so poorly, and under duress. Geralt, prick that he was, was still more patient than Yennefer, and Jaskier did not want to be the cause of her one and only scar. Though when he glanced down at her hand on his, he could see an old scar crossing her wrist. Not the only scar, then.

He still didn't want to be the cause of it.

"Don't make me lie to you," she said.

"What?"

Yennefer rolled her eyes, and said, stiffly, "I trust you, Jaskier, please, just do it." It was the least believable thing he had ever heard.

"You degrade us both," he told her. "Fine. Let me go fetch a needle and thread."

When he got back, she had struggled out of the bodice of the dress, leaving her bare to her bloody waist. He was as afraid as the first time he'd seen her breasts, but practice gave him the nerve to kneel at her side. "When it's painful and awful, just remember: _you_ begged _me_ ," he said, and began to clean the wound.

She stared at the sky, not flinching or hissing or pulling away. "Truly, you are insufferable," she said.

The wound was not long -- a small knife, he guessed -- and while it was deeper a hole than any wanted in their flesh, it was not so deep as to have nicked her guts. He couldn't smell the horror that came with perforation, just the sharp, meaty scent of blood and flesh. Thank the gods for _that_.

He began to stitch. Sewing flesh was harder by far than cloth; the resistance was greater, and blood welled with each stitch. He brushed it away, but it welled up faster than he could clear it, and, though Yennefer did not complain, there was more guilt than stitching a ripped seam.

When he finished, he wiped the welling blood once more and looked up. Her face was pale, her lips pressed tightly together, and she didn't look at him for a long moment, breathing through her flared nostrils until it finally seemed to register that he was done, and she met his gaze.

"Are you done?" she asked, sounding for all the world like he'd just been sick on her shoes, rather than stitching up her side.

"A little bit of gratitude wouldn't kill you, you know," he said, and helped her to her feet as she rolled her eyes. "If we're just going to stride off into the wilderness, might we at least get some _food_ , first?"

Grudgingly, she conceded to wait while he did so. Luckily, Sodden Hill had not been under siege. Unluckily, it was filled to the brim with refugees. There was food to be found, but not much, and he felt guilty with each piece he took. 

When he got back to Yennefer, her gown was back up and her hand was over her wound, a frown twisting her fine features.

"Still no magic?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

"It will return," she said, steely and determined. "Let's go, unless you have any other silly tasks to complete?"

" _Silly_ ," he said, disbelieving. "Silly, she says, as if I did not just have my fingers _inside her_."

"Was it good for you?" she asked, painfully getting to her feet. "I've had better, personally."

Jaskier surrendered to the inevitable and strangled the air in her direction. "You're a madwoman," he said, following her as she strode towards the gate, ready to take her arm if she stumbled. "Completely and utterly _raving_."

"A mad witch," she said, "I might turn you to a toad, or cook you in my soup."

"As long as you _ate_ something," he groused. "Do you have any idea where she might _be_ , this Tiss-- what was her name again?"

"Tissaia," Yennefer said, annoyed. "She was with me when I channelled the fire. If she's not there, she'll have returned to Aretuza."

"Are you planning on _walking_ to Aretuza?" Jaskier asked. His grasp of geography was limited to places he'd been or might be called to perform, but he was fairly certain Aretuza was near Oxenfurt. Having just made that trek, he didn't feel especially good about Yennefer's chances. It was a long road, and the most direct route was cut off by Nilfgaardian troops. There was no going through Cintra, to be certain.

"If I must," she gritted out. "It's not _ideal_."

"Not ideal," he muttered under his breath. "Not _ideal_. Incredible that you have mastery over both magic and understatement."

"I understand why the djinn tried to take your voice," she said thoughtfully.

"Don't you _dare_ ," Jaskier snapped. "Right now you're weaker than even me. If you try to do witchy things at me, I will shove you over and laugh when you can't get back up."

She sighed, but there was a hint of a grin on her lips. 

Yennefer led him to a rocky outcropping in the midst of the scorched earth. The ground was still warm, even hours later, but the fires had been too thorough to leave any remaining pockets. There was nothing left to burn. The outcropping was the only thing untouched, and a small pocket of ground beneath it.

"She was right here," Yennefer said bleakly. Then she whispered, "Tissaia, can you hear me?"

Apparently there was no answer, because she turned her head sharply, a gesture that almost looked like a ward against tears. Gently, Jaskier said, "To Aretuza, then?"

"To Aretuza," she agreed. 

They turned north and walked in silence for a while. Or near silence -- Jaskier hummed, trying to pick out the melody for the song he was going to write about Sodden Hill. It was going to be his piece de resistance, his tour de force, his legacy -- it had to be _good_ , not just catchy.

"Will you stop that?" Yennefer snapped, Sodden Hill still looming up behind them.

"Stop what?" Jaskier asked, genuinely confused. He hadn't been talking, which was normally what got him snapped at.

"That infernal humming," she said. "Finish the tune or stop it entirely, if you keep doing that measure alone, I'll go mad."

"I thought you were already a mad sorceress," Jaskier said, realizing as he did so that he was _teasing_ her. He never would have dared, when they first met. He was teasing her, and he was traveling with her, and not only because she and Geralt were tied and this was his best chance to find him, but because he cared whether she lived or died. Disgusting, really.

"An angry sorceress, certainly," she said. "If I were out of my wits, I wouldn't have made it this far, and if you put me out of them I will take you with me."

"Listen," Jaskier said, as reasonably as he knew how, which was, admittedly, more prissy and condescending than was often considered really effective in negotiations, "I'm a bard. I have to make a living somehow. Do you have any money on you?"

"Why would I?" she said. "I was traveling with the Brotherhood."

"Well, neither do I. The Nilfgaardians took everything but my lute. We'll need to get food on the way; better that we can buy it than have to steal it."

Yennefer rolled her eyes, unaffected by his argument. "You have songs already written. And besides, who wouldn't pay for a blessing right about now?"

"Can you do a blessing? By all means, if your magic has returned, take us to Aretuza post-haste!"

She glared at him, and that convinced him her magic had _not_ returned. If it had, she'd have flung a spell at him, or threatened his tender bits with a knife, or something a little more intimidating than just a look. Not that her looks weren't intimidating -- Jaskier was prone to exaggeration, metaphor, alliteration, and symbolism, but there was no need to lie about that. He'd been in rooms with terrifying women before, had watched as the Queen of Cintra slaughtered half her guests, as the Princess nearly destroyed the castle. He would still rate Yennefer as one of the more terrifying experiences of his life.

It was a compliment, really, and he was certain she would take it as such, when she wasn't feeling so impotent. Geralt had never liked to be complimented when he was injured, always thought it was an insult in disguise, and Yennefer had that same brittle edge. No self-worth, the either of them.

He sighed. "Fine, I'll stop humming, but you have to help me with lyrics then. _And_ you have to tell me all about the battle. This is going to be my _masterpiece_."


	4. Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have spent so long trying to figure out maps for this fic, and it's all bullshit. There are no roads on any of the maps. Ciri's path makes no goddamn sense! There's no scale! The coast line and country lines are different depending on which one you look at! So anyway. Travel times are chosen for narrative convenience, and the roads are made up!
> 
> Lyrics poorly adapted from the Child Ballad Tom Potts. Read [here](https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/child/ch109.htm), if you like.

At the fork in the road, Jaskier let Yennefer lead, as he had since they left Sodden Hill. They were heading generally north, and she was bound to Geralt. Luck would take them to Aretuza, or fate would take them to Geralt. Jaskier refused to admit a preference.

She was moving better now, some level of magic returned to her. Each night, she stripped to the waist and cupped a hand over his rough stitches. With each night, the wound healed more quickly. Soon, it would be closed entirely; he was considering cutting the stitches out tonight, once he saw it again.

"What would you say was the pivotal moment, at Sodden Hill?" he asked, strumming lightly. He'd already gotten the lead up from her, all the dirty details of her return to Aretuza, the trip to Sodden, the nighttime flight of half their number. It hadn't been easy; Yennefer was only slightly more forthcoming than Geralt, when it came to natural preference, but she was more of a talker in general, and Jaskier could work with that.

"There were many," she said. "Everyone who died --" She swallowed hard, the clearest expression of pain she ever allowed herself. "Everyone who died did so with a purpose. If Fringilla had not sent been able to take over Sabrina, they would not have gotten as close as they did. If Triss had not rebuilt the gate, they would have overtaken us long before the Northern Armies could arrive."

"You're being modest," Jaskier accused. "If I asked any who were there, would they say your fire was what saved the day?"

"Then ask them," she snapped. "If I had succeeded, Tissaia would be--" She cut herself off once more, jaw working. "Change the subject, bard."

So he did.

That was how it went, largely. Getting to know Yennefer despite her objections. He found he liked her, when they were alone.

He was rather more smug about his discoveries than really warranted, and it was because he was almost certain Geralt didn't know all of these things. Their relationship was too tempestuous for such domestic details. Jaskier was the one they showed their humanity too, not each other.

She slept curled tightly on her side. She always ate the more charred bits of whatever they managed to make for dinner, a preference that worked quite well for Jaskier. Her hair tangled badly through the night and she condescended to let him brush it out for her, since her side hurt too much to keep her hands raised for as long as it took. When she wasn't trying to make an impression, she was just as harsh and snappish, but slightly less high-handed, with a wicked sense of humor. 

\-- 

After another week on the road with Yennefer, Jaskier was not certain that either she or Geralt were worth it. He should have stayed in Oxenfurt, in his comfortable office, with his admiring students. He told her so, and she laughed, a mean edge to it. Her magic had begin returning, but only slowly, and she had little energy for more than sparks, which she delighted in flinging at him whenever it would startle him the most. This night, they crouched over their dinners in the corner of an inn, dimly lit and crowded with refugees, all fleeing the same way as them.

"You, a professor?" she asked. "Well, I suppose if one wants all the music in five years to be the same tedious melody, there is no better way to do it."

Jaskier was appalled. "I saved your life, you ungrateful wretch!"

"And in thanks, I will always be completely honest," Yennefer said, but she wasn't able to hide her amusement. 

"Oh, what a prize," Jaskier said, but Yennfer was eating more tonight than she had all the nights previous, and he was too relieved to be truly annoyed. 

He'd played for a few hours earlier to earn enough coin for their dinner, and his fingers were aching. He was tired in the satisfied way of a good performance, a little thrilled, the happiest he'd been since leaving Oxenfurt, or even before that.

There'd been a steady flow of traffic all night -- the Southern refugees, yes, but also the locals, and the tail end of the Northern armies. It was a small town, and overflowing with bodies. They'd had to walk through a mile of tents to reach the inn, and they'd only gotten seats by virtue of his playing. Even Yennefer's most cutting look meant little to a family that had lost all they had and walked twenty miles for a chance to sit down.

So Jaskier did not pay attention when the door opened once more. It took Yennefer going stiff as a board to get him to look up. "What?" he said, craning his neck. "I thought you left that stick up your ass down the road-- oh." Geralt was there at the door, looking around in that considering way he had. Next to him, a smaller figure, wearing a once-rich cloak.

For all that Geralt was the reason he was out here, that this pursuit was what had driven him from comfort, he hadn't really though he'd be seeing Geralt any time soon. He'd thought -- he'd thought he'd have warning, time to prepare. He'd thought it wouldn't hurt quite so much.

"Oh," he said again, quiet, subdued. Yennefer glanced at him.

"He fucked you too?" she asked, more solidarity than he'd ever expected from her, given how little attention she'd paid him before he'd found her smoldering in Sodden Hill.

"Not literally," he said, a little more bitter than was entirely appropriate.

Her gaze went sharp, her eyes narrowed. But she didn't pounce, and that was a sign of something. Before, Yennefer treated any sign of weakness like an invitation. "He might not see us," she said, carefully neutral. And Yennefer -- Yennefer ran from nothing. To offer, out of concern for Jaskier's _feelings_? It was preposterous enough that he laughed, short and harsh.

"Thank you," he said, then waved a hand and called out, "Geralt! Join us, you ox."

Geralt's head snapped around, his hand going to the shoulder of his companion, ready to shove them behind him before recognition washed over his face. He tilted his head, the most curiosity Jaskier ever saw out of him, and headed over, plowing through the crowd with the same muscular grace with which he did everything.

Gods, Jaskier had missed him, and hated himself for missing him. His stomach twisted as Geralt came to the table. There was no room for him to sit, crammed in as they were at the end of a full table, and so Geralt hovered, as much as a man his size could be said to be hovering. His companion, Jaskier saw, when they drew closer, was a girl, a child, one who looked remarkably like the Princess of Cintra. He looked over to Yennefer to see if she had noticed the resemblance, but of course, she hadn't been to the Cintran court. Her face was drawn into a scowl, her finger drawing circles in the spilled ale on the table top.

"Witcher," she said, icy and dignified. No one would guess that she'd been helpless under Jaskier's bucket of water only two weeks before. 

"Yen," he said, almost breathless with it. "Jaskier." 

"Introduce us to your friend, Geralt, don't be an ass," Jaskier said, rather hoping he could brazen his way through this encounter. Although where did that leave him? Would he abandon Yennefer to her quest, her magic only just returning, in order to follow Geralt around like a dog?

"I'm rarely anything else," Geralt said and the girl elbowed him hard in the ribs. He grunted, looked at her, looked back at Jaskier and Yennefer. "This is Fiona," he said. 

"Geralt," Jaskier said, leaning forward and propping his chin on his hand. "I've known you for, oh, twenty years at this point? And you think you can get away with implying that you -- you, the Butcher of Blavikin, you, who needs no one, and lives in dread of anyone needing you, you want me to accept that you have a child now, with no further questions? No offense meant, darling."

Fiona stared at him, blue eyes huge and clear. If she wasn't the Lion Cub of Cintra, Jaskier would eat his lute. He just wanted Geralt to _admit_ it, admit that she was his Child Surprise, that the shit Jaskier had been shoveling was not shit, but human lives, that Geralt could not run forever. He wanted, he knew, more than Geralt would ever be able to give him. It would be embarrassing, if it weren't so frustrating.

After a long pause, Geralt's face stony and stern, he said, "She's my daughter."

Fiona looked up at him, took his hand for a quick squeeze. Jaskier, godsdamn him, melted. Yennefer did not. She leaned forward, eyeing the girl up and down. "She deserves better than you."

Geralt grimaced. "I know."

"We should go," Fiona said. "You said they were your friends, but I don't think they are."

 _That_ struck to the quick. For Jaskier, and for Yennefer as well, if the way she leaned back, not quite controlled, meant anything. 

"You're right," Jaskier swallowed the _Your Highness_ before it could slip out, "Fiona. We're being rude. Take my seat. I'll get something for you to eat."

Yennefer stayed planted where she was, leaving Geralt standing awkwardly as Jaskier threaded his way to the counter. He heard Geralt say, haltingly, "I'm sorry, Yen."

Bitterness nearly gagged him. Of course Yennefer would get an apology, and of course Jaskier wouldn't. That was what he _got_ for being in love with a man djinn-bonded. He'd been there first, and it would never matter. 

He ordered, trying to shake off his anger before he returned to the table. Whatever Geralt had done to him, Fiona was innocent, and did not need to see them fight. When the food arrived he took another deep breath, then headed back to the table. He set it down carefully, no trace of his anger left to scare the already frightened child. He was better than that, better than his worst impulses.

One of them had to be.

"Eat up, darling, and don't let Geralt get there first," he said, keeping his voice teasing. "Too many times I've shared dinner with this one and gone to bed hungry."

Geralt passed a hand over Fiona's hood, almost unbearably gentle. "She's perfectly capable of fending for herself," he said, then looked up, looked straight at Jaskier, the eye contact almost unsettlingly intense. "Thank you, Jaskier."

It was so honest and open and beyond what he normally got that Jaskier found himself mollified and uncomfortable. "Well," he said, fidgeting. "Anything for an old friend."

Yennefer snorted.

"Shut up," he said instinctually, "no one asked you."

"We should go somewhere more private, when you've finished eating," she said, talking more to Fiona than to either Geralt or Jaskier. "Did you manage to get us a room, bard?"

"None available," he said, "but a fan offered us his barn for the night. Only half a mile's walk." He managed to paste enough cheer on that to get Yennefer to curl her lip in disgust, which was the goal. "I'm sure the cows won't mind a couple more."

Geralt's jaw flexed, which was very nearly a soliloquy coming from him. "Thank you."

"Someone's taught you manners since last we saw each other," Jaskier marveled, but not with too much happiness. He'd seen the way Geralt limped as he walked across the room. He could see the gaunt hollows of Geralt's cheeks. The last year had not been easy on him.

Fiona looked up from her food. "My grandmother had many talents," she said, half wry, half heartbroken. If he'd not already suspected her lineage, that would have sealed it. Jaskier remembered Calanthe and her talents.

"That she did," he said, let her look at him, considering. She reminded him of nothing so much as a fox, wary and quick, with an underlying viciousness. Geralt would do well by her.

When she finished eating, Geralt gathered up what was left for the road. He hadn't eaten at all, and Jaskier went back to the counter, picked up a loaf of bread and hunk of cheese for the road. They would be going through their rations faster than expected, it seemed.

When he had the food, he led the way to the farmstead, trusting that the farmer's directions would get him where they needed to go. Geralt led Roach, walking beside her. Jaskier kept chattering on the way, still uncomfortable with silence, even after all these years. There were no takers on any of his conversational gambits, but at least he could reassure himself that neither were they talking to each other.

When they found the farm, he knocked on the door, and the farmer looked glad to see him. "You found us without trouble then?"

"No trouble," Jaskier said. "And thank you again for your gracious hospitality."

He was laying it on thick, but he was genuinely grateful. Sleeping in the midst of a Nilfgaardian company had made him less picky about where he laid his head. The barn had walls, a roof, straw as comfortable as many inn mattresses, and only a few fragrant roommates. All in all, he'd had worse sleeping experiences, including ones he'd paid good coin for.

"I needed to thank you somehow," the farmer was saying as he led them to the hayloft. "We've little enough coin or food, but we have space. The roof is sound, so even if it rains, you'll be dry through the night." He left them a candle when he left, with a caution not to drop it.

Jaskier swallowed the urge to tell him that if they meant to burn down his barn, between the sorceress and the witcher, there were much more likely options.

"Well," he said, turning to his companions as the barn door closed, leaving them alone, save for the three cows and Roach farting peacefully below them. "Geralt, I think it's time you introduce us properly."

Geralt grunted and sat, more heavily than was his want. The girl went with him, worry drawing her face into older lines than she had earned. "Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Lion Cub of Cintra. My Child Surprise." Cirilla stared at him for a moment, looking betrayed, and he set a hand on her knee. Squeezed. Let go.

Yennefer made a small, almost wounded noise. "So you accepted your fate."

"Nilfgaard was coming down like a hammer. I couldn't leave her unprotected."

"As lovely as that is," Jaskier said, and it was, it was lovely, it was the sweetest thing Geralt had ever said, "you should introduce _us_ to _her_. Your etiquette's off, witcher. Royalty takes precedence."

At that, Yennefer laughed, but quietly. "Let me put up a barrier before we say any more. I'm certain there are those that dearly want to know where you are."

With a gesture, she created a bubble of silence around them. It was small, barely bigger than the area between them, and the effort left her gray and shaking. Jaskier helped her to a seat on a hay bale, and sat with her, arm behind her back, close enough to catch her if she slumped, far enough for her ego.

"Yen?" Geralt asked, eyebrows drawn together in concern. "What's wrong?"

"You'll have to wait for the song," Jaskier said, giving Yennefer a moment to catch her breath. "It was very heroic, and she won't tell it right."

"You're insufferable," she told him, but she was fond about it. Neither did she tell Geralt what had happened at Sodden Hill.

"Ciri," Geralt said, when it became clear neither of them would elaborate. "My friends. Jaskier, bard. Yennefer, sorceress."

"Your talent for understatement never fails to impress," Jaskier sighed. "Your Highness, I'm sure that you have undergone a terrible journey. How may we be of service?"

"I don't need anything from you," she said, wary as a rabbit before the fox. Or the fox, looking at a trap.

"Of course not," Jaskier said, gently. 

"You need all the help you can get, little one," Yennefer said. Some color had returned to her face, but her hand was cupped over her wound like it pained her. "You don't trust us; I understand. I wouldn't either, in your position. So ask yourself, how can you use us?" A wry smile flashed briefly over her lips. "In better times, I would be able to teleport you wherever you needed to go. Now, however..."

"No portals," Geralt grunted.

"You're so quaint," Yennefer said, but didn't argue.

"I need safety," the Princess said. "You look like you're about to fall over dead."

"You're going to Kaer Morhen?" Jaskier asked. It was a safe guess; Geralt often wintered there. It was the place he felt most safe in the world.

"Yes," Geralt said.

"And you're injured," Jaskier said.

"Yes," Geralt said. Ciri drew closer to him, protectively, like she thought Jaskier would spring at him or something similar. As if Jaskier had ever been a threat to Geralt. As if Jaskier had ever had any effect on him at all. No, he was being ridiculous. Geralt had never been as unfeeling as he claimed.

"That's a long walk for an injured man," he said. "And a Princess."

Geralt clenched his jaw. "Yes."

Jaskier sighed. "Well, the miles pass quicker with company. We're on our way to Aretuza, we can share the road as far as Oxenfurt. I can likely get you a wagon there."

The Princess looked hopeful and suspicious of her hope. She looked at Geralt, who just looked tired. He scrubbed a hand down his face. "That would be helpful," he said. 

"It's been a long day," Yennefer said, which Jaskier had to assume was as true for Geralt and the Princess as it was for the two of them. "We can plan on the road. We're all heading north, and Roach can't carry the two of you at any sort of speed."

Geralt grunted agreement, but the Princess looked miles from sleep. That she had been quiet did not mean she was agreeable.

So he addressed her directly. "Would you like to hear of your parents wedding?"

For the first time she looked at him with something that wasn't suspicion. "You were there?" she asked.

"I played it," he said. "And then I wrote a song about it. Your parents loved each other very much."

"I know," she said, blinking hard. "But it's good to hear. Tell me your version. I only know my grandmother's."

Jaskier wasn't certain what Calanthe's version of the story would have sounded like, wasn't sure whether she would have tried to make herself look good. But he could tell the truth, as far as he knew it.

When he reached for his lute, Yennefer snapped, "I will not listen to your yowling before I sleep."

" _Yowling_ ," Jaskier repeated, deeply insulted. "Madam, I have played for kings and queens. You should be so lucky as to hear my _yowling_."

"I am, constantly," Yennefer said. "I am overflowing with luck."

The Princess laughed before covering her mouth, embarrassed, and Jaskier smoothed his hackles, understanding Yennefer's purpose. Or what he hoped was her purpose; if she actually disliked his singing, he was going to harangue her later. "Move away, then. You're not the audience here."

"That's clear," she said, but did not protest further.

He adjusted some of the lyrics on the fly, the raunchier ones, but he kept the confrontation the same. 

"I have a lover of mine own," he sang as Pavetta, "a knight of small-degree, Duny of Urcheon is his name, and he is the first love that ever I had, and the last he shall be." He played the bridge slowly, then launched into the battle, the reveal of the Law of Surprise, the false acceptance, Pavetta's fury, the double wedding. The Law of Surprise invoked once more.

The Princess fell asleep while he sang, tipping over onto Geralt's shoulder. He eased her down so her head rested in his lap, the tenderness of the motion almost heartbreaking. 

"You liar," Jaskier whispered, quiet enough that Geralt only looked at him and didn't call him on it. 

"Well," Yennefer said, arms curled around her knees and head folded forward onto them, looking very young and very tired. "I suppose we must get her to Kaer Morhen."

"No arguments for Aretuza?" Jaskier asked. 

"Tissaia," Yennefer said, the name coming out of her mouth as if it were something precious, as it always did, "is far more capable of taking care of herself than a child of the Elder Blood. If she is at Aretuza, she will still be there whether it takes me a month or a year. If she is not..." Yennefer trailed off, then powered through. She had never let pain stop her for long. "My wishing will not change it."

Geralt passed his hand over the Princess' hair, the movement unpracticed and sincere. "Thank you," he said, not quite looking at either of them.

"Can you fix his leg?" Jaskier asked. If he didn't keep them focused, Yennefer and Geralt had a tendency towards silent dramatics and yearning. It was rather disgusting. 

Yennefer's face went pinched and unhappy. "Not tonight," she admitted grudgingly. "The silence spell has drained me."

"What happened?" Geralt asked, making a small movement towards her, arrested by the girl sleeping on him.

"None of your business," she said.

"She saved Sodden Hill," Jaskier said, fed up with the two of them talking past each other.

Yennefer glared at him, then at Geralt. "I'm going to sleep," she said, and lay down, the sphere of silence popping and allowing the soft noises of the night back in.

"Jaskier," Geralt said, easing the Princess off his leg and tucking her more firmly into her cloak. "Tell me what I've missed."

Jaskier, who'd spent a year telling himself he was done coming when Geralt called, Jaskier, who had determined to make himself a fool no more, Jaskier, who had no pride at all, it seemed, went with Geralt to sit overlooking the cows and their flatulence. 

"Though I'm certain you would find my time in Oxenfurt scintillating," Jaskier said, "you're more interested in Nilfgaard, aren't you?"

"They pursue her beyond reason," Geralt said, glancing back at his charge.

And Jaskier finally put some pieces together. "The quartermaster told me the Emperor was cursed, before he overthrew the Usurper."

Geralt looked sharply at him. "Cursed _how_?"

"He didn't say, but one might suspect a certain hedgehoggy affect," Jaskier said, stomach sinking. What was the morality of this? If Duny and var Emreis were one and the same, it was the Princess' father searching for desperately for her. It was her father destroying the North with war, plowing through countries with no more compunction or resistance than a farmer in a stony field. And her father had chosen not to announce himself, not to approach his mother-in-law with honesty and openness, but instead with an army so vicious she had killed herself rather than be taken alive. 

"Shit," Geralt said with feeling.

"Quite," Jaskier said. It explained much, but it did not give them any insight on how to proceed. "Will you still take her to Kaer Morhen?"

"Yes," Geralt said easily, no pause to think. "She must have the choice. He cannot command her presence. Do you trust him?"

"Gods, no," Jaskier said. How could one trust a man who faked his death and returned at the front of a voracious army? "Do you think Pavetta...?"

Geralt shrugged. "Didn't get much of a sense of her, but I don't think she would have left Ciri by choice."

"Ciri?" Jaskier asked.

"It's what she likes to be called," Geralt said stiffly, as if admitting to liking his ward were showing an unbearable weakness.

"But in front of strangers, Fiona, for safety," Jaskier said, allowing Geralt off the hook.

Geralt grunted, and Jaskier stayed another moment, waiting to see if Geralt had anything else to say to him. When he didn't, Jaskier began to rise, and Geralt caught him by the wrist. His hand was warm and dry, his callouses as rough as they were in Jaskier's memory. It was too close and too far from what he wanted, and he pulled away, not ungently.

"What is it?" he asked, standing just far enough back that Geralt would have to work to touch him. Geralt did not, just blinked up at him, cat's eyes reflective in the dark, strange pools of silver.

"I," Geralt started stiffly, "owe you an apology."

Jaskier sat abruptly back down. Geralt had never once in his _life_ apologized to him. He had gone beyond expecting it. He'd thought he would just get over Geralt's offenses, or stew until he died. He'd accepted it with ill-grace, but accepted it he had.

"Well," he said, almost light-headed. "Go on then."

Geralt grimaced. "I," he said, sounding rather like he was talking around a wound, he spoke with such reluctance, "treated you poorly, last we saw each other."

"You did," Jaskier said.

"I should not have."

"No," Jaskier agreed.

Geralt's face was tight with discomfort. "I can't say I won't do it again. But I will do my best not to."

Jaskier let out his breath, feeling almost post-coital with it. "See that you do," he said. He was so pleased he couldn't stop smiling. What a low fucking bar he had set, and yet he couldn't bring himself to care. "So, your Child Surprise. Not so bad as you were afraid?"

Geralt glared at him, but as far as Geralt's looks went, it was mild. He was relieved, though he couldn't say it. Or at least that was what Jaskier would read into it; if Geralt wanted to stop him, he would have to use his words.

"I want her safe," Geralt said. "Fate has made its position clear on my responsibility for that."

"When were you last in Kaer Morhen?" Jaskier asked, sidestepping that. Geralt had not believed in fate, last time they were together.

Geralt frowned, but it was thoughtful, not annoyed. "A few years ago. Some winter there yearly, but I range far enough south that it's not convenient."

"And someone will be there to welcome you?"

"It's not guaranteed, but nothing is," Geralt said. "Vesemir will likely be there. If not now, then in a few months time."

"Vesemir was the one who trained you, yes?" Jaskier asked. Geralt had shared so little of his life and Jaskier had clung so tightly to the scraps he'd dropped. This was one that he was almost certain of; Geralt had used the phrase, "According to Vesemir..." at least thrice in their friendship, which was more than he ever mentioned anyone.

"Yes," Geralt said. Even now, he only shared with reluctance. As if Jaskier would ever use the knowledge against him. As if he could.

"Tell me about Kaer Morhen," Jaskier demanded. "Not your witcher secrets, I don't care about those. But that was where you grew up. You must have stories."

Geralt sighed. "In the morning."

"I'll hold you to that," Jaskier said.


	5. The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot from the wiki here, so if you've read the books and I got it all wildly wrong.... oh well!

When they woke in the morning, there was an awkward melding of morning routines. Jaskier and Yennefer had fallen into a rhythm, if not an easy one. Yennefer made breakfast while Jaskier brushed her hair and gathered the things that had been scattered the night before. Yennefer was not a good cook by any means, but it kept her still while she worked on her wound, and Jaskier was willing to put up with her bland oatmeal if it meant she didn't collapse later in the day.

Geralt and Ciri's routine, on the other hand, seemed to involve no preparation beyond rolling out of bed, collecting whatever traps Geralt had set the night before -- and when had he done  _ that _ , Jaskier wondered -- and going, stuffing food in their mouths as they moved. They acted, that is to say, as if they were pursued, and that any rest was just an opportunity for those on their trail to catch up with them.

It was disquieting, because, for all of Geralt's flaws, he was not prone to overreaction. Jaskier tried to trade a glance with Yennefer and found that she was frowning at Ciri.

"They follow you with magic?" she asked.

"I don't know," Ciri said. "But they always find me."

Yennefer hummed. "They weren't able to cross at Sodden Hill. Whatever force is coming now, it won't be large. Come here."

Ciri glanced at Geralt and waited for his nod before crossing the loft to stand before Yennefer. Yennefer framed Ciri's face with her hands, keeping them a few inches a way, and magic hummed between them, a gentle vibration. She worked her way down Ciri's body, never touching her, just keeping the magic humming. Her frown grew deeper, until the hum of magic cut off and she folded her hands in her lap.

"It's your cloak," she said. "That's how they're tracking you."

Ciri clutched the clasp of her cloak. "My grandmother gave this to me."

"That's why they can track it," Yennefer said, but she was gentler than Jaskier had ever seen her. "We'll get you a new one. And once you're safe, we'll figure out a way for you to remember your grandmother."

Ciri pressed her lips together. "We shouldn't leave it here, then. That would just lead them to the farmer."

Yennefer nodded. "We'll drop it on the road, once we've found you another. It will get colder, the farther north we go."

"All right," Ciri said, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Jaskier would have dropped a comforting hand on her shoulder if he thought it all likely she would take it as comfort. 

As it was, he nudged Geralt hard, and whispered, "Go to her."

Stiffly, Geralt went. When he put a hand on Ciri's shoulder, she didn't turn to him as Jaskier had expected. She just laid her hand on his and squeezed. "We should go as soon as we can," she said. "The man following me is very dedicated."

Jaskier finished packing and shoved a hunk of cheese in his mouth. "Let me thank the farmer before we go. We shan't slip out like thieves in the night." Geralt grunted and Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Come now, you know it would just be more suspicious. If he has fond memories of us, perhaps he'll wait until they threaten him to tell which direction we went."

Yennefer hid her grin and gestured imperiously at Geralt’s leg, the ragged hole in his pants, and the angry flesh visible beneath. "You'll just slow us down if I don't fix that," she said, haughty enough that no one would mistake it for forgiveness.

When Jaskier finished speaking with the farmer's wife, the farmer already gone for the day, the group was ready.

Jaskier, as the least injured of the group, was in a new and exciting position; he wasn't slowing things down. Geralt refused to ride Roach, despite his ghoul bite, and Ciri refused to ride her without Geralt, and Roach refused to move quickly so overburdened, so mostly they all walked, Roach carrying food and Geralt's armor and swords.

They moved with enough focus that they outpaced the heaviest of the refugee group, who tended to be heavier laden. Drawing ahead of the crowd was a great relief; the road was firmer and less muddy, when there were not so many feet ahead of theirs. The fields had not been stripped, and the people were less suspicious.

Dropping Ciri's cloak had taken a detour east, but they recovered the time. And without as much fear of pursuit, the travel was easier. Even Geralt seemed to relax a fraction.

\--

A few days in, Ciri didn't look at them quite as suspiciously, and Jaskier decided it was time to get to know her. He'd been talking to her, of course, but hadn't made a concentrated effort; she had been too skittish and he hadn't wanted to push. But she'd stopped looking for an escape every time he fell in next to her, so after their brief lunch break, he did so.

"Your Highness," he said, and she made a face. He laughed. "You'll have to pardon me, Ciri, it's rare nobility that allows their title to be dropped."

"You speak like you know many," she said, looking sidelong at him.

"Well, yes," he said. "I  _ am _ a Viscount."

"You're a  _ what _ ?" Yennefer said, turning from where she walked ahead of them. Her dress was less black and white at this point and more brown, but she'd made no noises about needing a new one. "Of  _ where _ ? What sort of country would title  _ you _ and then let you walk around the world, writing terrible songs?"

"Kerack," Geralt called, from where he walked behind them. "It explains a lot."

"That pirate's den?" Yennefer snorted. "Still, a  _ viscount _ ?"

"I assure you, I feel much the same," Jaskier said. "Which is why I'm not  _ in _ Kerack. My cousins are much more suited to the job, so I let them fight it out in my absence."

"When she says pirate's den," Ciri said, "is she exaggerating?"

"Yes," Jaskier said, sighing, just as Geralt said, "No," firmly.

Jaskier glared over his shoulder at him. "Kerack-the-city was a pirate city for a time, yes, but King Osmyck brought law and order etcetera etcetera. Under King Belohun it's just like any other country, with endless bureaucracy and lots of tedious backstabbing."

"Pirates," Geralt said, "built Kerack and it hasn’t been long enough to forget that. Their harbors are a safe port for pirates. Almost as bad as Skellige and with less pride."

Jaskier snorted. "Oh, there's plenty of pride."

"You didn't care for it?" Ciri asked.

"I did not," Jaskier said, "though  _ not  _ because it is a pirate country. Geralt's just bitter because there's no work for him there."

"There's plenty of work," Geralt said. "Can't have a coastline without Drowners. Lots of harpies, too. But pirates don't like to pay, think they can handle it all themselves, and a scared population is an easy mark."

"He's been  _ once _ ," Jaskier told Ciri, aggrieved. "And he hated it because one of my cousins tried to sleep with him, and when he didn't go for it, she stole his pants.  _ I _ thought it was funny."

Based on the smile Ciri was fighting, so did she. "She stole his pants?" she repeated.

Geralt had gone mulishly silent, and Yennefer had her head cocked so Jaskier could tell she was listening. He  _ loved  _ a receptive audience. He launched into the tale, replete with hand gestures. "It was for my thirtieth birthday, you see, and I had beseeched Geralt for his companionship during the celebrations. My family, gods love them, love a celebration, and I am the oldest of my male cousins on my mother's side of the family, and therefore the first unto the breach for a  _ really big party _ ."

"They're tacky," Geralt added when he paused for breath.

Jaskier bent, plucked a tuft of grass from the raised greenery between the wheel ruts, and tossed it at him as he continued. "I've spent most of my birthdays on the road, but I'd received no uncertain notice that were I to miss this celebration I could count on any financial support being pulled and also some mercenaries being hired to drag me home and make me actually oversee the lands. So off to celebrate I went, with my trusty witcher at my side to protect me."

"He slept with the heir to the throne," Geralt supplied. Ciri's open mouthed delight grew.

"One time," Jaskier admitted. "But if one gets a chance to-" he swallowed the word  _ bugger,  _ which was probably not an appropriate thing to say to a princess of any age, "romance royalty, one should always take it, in my opinion."

Yennefer cut in. "Don't take any advice from Jaskier, Ciri, he has the self-preservation instincts of a particularly stupid sheep."

"If the gallery would stop writing the show..." Jaskier said pointedly and then continued. "So, Geralt accompanied me to my thirtieth birthday celebrations, which is not representative of the country  _ or _ my family. Festivities lasted a week. Drinking, feasting, carrying on, all that. Our story takes place on the third day."

Yennefer broke in once more. "A week? Geralt --  _ this _ Geralt, the Geralt incapable of human conversation, the Geralt that thinks--" she cut herself off abruptly, looking furious. Jaskier watched Ciri as she glanced between Yennefer and Geralt, her steps slowing. Had he told her  _ how _ he knew Yennefer? Well, it wasn't his place to explain. “ _ That _ Geralt attended a week-long party?”

"My cousin, Elaine, took a liking to Geralt when she first saw him. She'd been trying to get his attention since the festivities started, but Geralt was busy ignoring anyone who wasn't threatening my life or his, so she decided to corner him in the baths. Now, in Kerack, we have saunas. You don't see them much this far south, but they're a great hit the further north you go."

At Ciri's look of confusion, he explained. "It's a steam room -- in the palace, there's a steam room, a tub of hot water, and a tub of cold water. It's good for the health. So, Geralt, as a southern savage, refused to use the steam room or the cold room, but even mighty witchers like a hot bath when it's available. Each night, after the festivities ended, he would go soak, sometimes for hours. Now, Elaine noticed this, and followed him in. When he turned her down once more, she took his clothes on her way out. Then she hung them from the parapets." Ciri giggled disbelievingly.

Geralt, dripping wet, furious, and very naked, had made a bit of a stir, storming through the castle. Jaskier thought it better that he didn't describe the sight -- it had affected him rather more than he wanted to let on to any in this group.

"Finding Jaskier's the nice one," Geralt said, "is why I hate Kerack."

It was only a small joke, but it was one of the first Geralt had made since they reunited. Jaskier fought down a smile of his own. 

"So now you have a story out of me," he said. "It's only fair if you give me one of yours."

Ciri shook her head, but it wasn't a denial. "I don't have any stories," she said. "I was just a princess, and then I was running. Boring, and then terrifying."

"Stories get less scary the more you tell them," Jaskier said, but didn't push too hard. If she didn't want to talk, she didn't have to. Ciri was no Geralt or Yennefer, where needling was a game. She was a child, and her life had turned upside down.

Ciri nodded decisively. "I was sent from the castle, and the knight taking me was killed. I had to run, and the Black Knight almost caught me. I -- screamed, and the ground split. I hadn't known I could do that." She looked at Jaskier with huge eyes. "You were there when my mother did it, right? Found her Elder Blood?"

"I was," Jaskier said. "But she didn't split the ground."

Ciri's lips tightened. "I wish she were here to tell me how to use it on purpose. I'm just...fumbling and hurting people."

"You're surviving," Yennefer said, voice firm. "With no training, with no support, you're surviving. With training and support, you'll be able to do whatever you want."

Ciri blinked back tears. "I don't want to be afraid of myself, of what I can do."

Yennefer stopped walking and turned to Ciri, took Ciri's face in her hands. "Never fear your potential, cub. I would be a poor sorceress if I could not train a single girl, and I am not a poor sorceress."

Somehow, despite Yennefer having the comforting warmth of a snake, that seemed to reassure her. She tried a weak smile, and Yennefer favored her with a fierce grin. "You must control your chaos, cub, but that does not mean to stifle it." Yennefer released her and returned to her spot at the front.

As they began walking once more, Jaskier looked over his shoulder and saw Geralt's face. He looked quickly back to Ciri. "So, you thumbed your nose at this Black Knight."

Ciri attempted a smile. "If you can call it that. I was about as surprised as he was. But I kept running, and I found a refugee camp. It... it was awful," she said, and continued without pausing for details. "After that, I went to Brokilon."

"Brokilon?" Jaskier asked. "How did you end up near Sodden Hill? Brokilon's far north."

"They sent a doppler for me," she said, voice steely enough that he almost couldn't hear the tremble. "Wearing the face of Cintra's court mage."

"Mousesack?" Geralt asked, and Jaskier remembered that Geralt had known him, had  _ liked  _ him. "He deserved better."

"He did," Ciri said, and her grief was palpable. 

When Jaskier took her shoulder, she didn't flinch away.

\--

After another week on the road, Yennefer still hadn't turned Geralt inside out, but it was a near thing. Her magic was almost entirely returned, though she couldn't manage a portal for all four of them, even if Geralt had been willing to go through it. 

Geralt kept trying to apologize to her, in the way that Geralt was capable of apologizing, which was not, really, apologizing in any sense of the word. He would either give her so much space that it was clear that was what he was doing or bring her herbs that looked suspiciously like flowers, as if one could un-make a djinn's magic by wanting it enough. 

One night, when Yennefer looked ready to throttle him, Jaskier caught her by the arm and led her away. "Yennefer and I will get some water," he said vaguely, gripping her tighter when she looked ready to turn her rage on him. "Do you  _ want _ to be near him another second, or will you take a breath?"

She surrendered to him, though the tension did not leave her shoulders until they were far from the camp and he sat her on a boulder. "Now," Jaskier said, "we both know he's a fool, and we both know you can leave whenever you like. Accept the one or do the other."

Yennefer stared at him for a long moment before she sighed. "I don't want to leave Ciri," she admitted.

Jaskier sat beside her, so their shoulders brushed. She was no hotter than any other person, and even weeks later that was a relief. It had terrified him, how hot she'd burned. "That is the rub, isn't it?" he said, looking up at the sky through the trees. The branches showed only the barest trace of bright blue, the faintest wisps of clouds. Around them, the creatures that had fallen silent from their passage began to call once more. The forest was vibrantly alive, and within it, Jaskier could feel the force of his own heart, strong and steady.

He didn't even want to regret leaving Oxenfurt anymore. He loved this, always had. The drama, the story, the stakes. He even loved the camping, the sleeping under the stars. He loved the rain less, but it couldn't dampen the road's call.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think he planned it," he said and Yennefer scoffed.

"Don't give him too much credit," she said. 

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a while. 

"I never thought he would be good with kids," Jaskier admitted finally.

"He's trying hard," Yennefer said begrudgingly. "He told me he thought I would make a terrible mother, but I thought he would make a terrible father. It seemed almost fair."

"Both of you are surpassing expectations, then," Jaskier said. Yennefer spent hours each evening teaching Ciri control, learning as she went exactly what Ciri could do. They both ended the sessions exhausted.

Yennefer made a face. Accepting compliments was still a step too far for her; she seemed to think they were born of pity. For the woman who wanted everything, she was bad at taking what was offered.

She changed the subject with no finesse. "I worry about Tissaia."

"Can you magic yourself a conversation?" he asked. "Ask her how she's doing?"

"You have to know where they are, or use a megascope or homing crystal," Yennefer said, and she didn't talk to him like he was a complete fool, which was the greatest compliment  _ she'd _ ever given  _ him _ .

"A megascope sounds large," he said, trying not to make her change her mind.

"They are," she said. "A homing crystal, on the other hand, is very portable."

He looked sharply at her, but she just smiled.

\--

It took another week after that before Jaskier got stuck alone with Geralt. He'd done a wonderful job of keeping himself out of old habits, had made sure not to seek out Geralt's attention, but something had happened with Ciri, and she'd gone to Yennefer, and Yennefer had sent Geralt and Jaskier away to get supplies. They'd recently passed through town and resupplied, their packs full of food, warmer clothes purchased as the autumn started to show in the frosty nights, so it was clearly an excuse.

Jaskier had his suspicions as to the reason for the excuse, but he only looked at Geralt before Geralt grunted. "Yeah," he said. "Happy to let Yen take it."

"All right, then," Jaskier said, staring at the tiny, nothing village before them. "We could get more food, I suppose. Does Roach need anything?"

"She's not picky," Geralt said, which was not what Jaskier had been asking, but if the man didn't want to spoil his horse, Jaskier wasn't about to go over his head. Roach had a tendency to bite him when she was feeling crotchety, which was often. He wasn't going to spend any of his hard earned money on honeyed oats or whatever horses liked for an unappreciative nag.

"We could get a drink?" Jaskier offered.

Geralt grunted and headed for the tavern, which Jaskier took as agreement. Under his breath, Jaskier muttered, "Oh, yes, Jaskier, I would love to! I'm a witcher, I like alcohol and killing monsters and nothing else, especially not manners!"

"I can hear you," Geralt said.

"Are you learning anything?" Jaskier responded.

That, Geralt did not deign to respond to. He picked them a table in the corner, where he could see the door without moving his head, and Jaskier sat across from him, just to the side enough that he wouldn't block Geralt's view. It had taken years to learn that instinct, but it was well-engrained now, and overcoming it just to be petty would have taken conscious effort. Two weeks ago, Jaskier might have made that effort, but now, well. 

He wasn't proud of himself.

"So," he said, after Geralt took a draught, "how are you liking fatherhood?"

Geralt did not look nearly as poisonous as he'd expected. "I should not have run from her as hard I did," he said. "Though I doubt Calanthe would agree."

"No, she wasn't much prone to agreement, was she?"

"I understood her. It was her family, torn apart by promises she did not make. It could make anyone bitter."

Much as Jaskier knew about bitterness, he had no one to blame but himself. Geralt, he knew, had others. And if Geralt could sympathize with Calanthe, who was no bleeding heart, Jaskier supposed he could not begrudge her her rage.

"What were you doing?" he asked, unable to stop himself. "All the time we were apart."

Geralt laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Sitting in Calanthe's dungeon."

Jaskier's eyebrows shot up. "I can't have heard that correctly."

"You did," Geralt said. "I saw Nilfgaard coming and went to claim Ciri, take her somewhere safe. Calanthe took offense."

"She thought she could face them by herself?" Jaskier asked.

"Twelve years ago, she could have," Geralt said. "Sometimes, people only believe what they see for themselves."

Jaskier looked a long time at Geralt. "Are you one such?"

Geralt looked evenly back. "It's easier to believe one's eyes."

_ Do you see me?  _ Jaskier swallowed the thought. Either answer would hurt, and there was no point punishing himself. "In that case," Jaskier said, "I shall astound and amaze with this performance."

Geralt grabbed his wrist as he stood, palm hot against the thin skin of Jaskier's inner wrist. "Sit with me," he said. "Stop running."

Jaskier sank back into his seat, appalled and delighted, his heart in his throat. "You think I'm running from you?"

Geralt had never been one to embarrass easily, and he didn't now. "This is the first time we've been alone since the first night," he said. "I won't beg, Jaskier, either you'll forgive me or you won't."

"And what's your preference?" Jaskier asked. Geralt's hand was still locked around his wrist. He wondered if Geralt could feel his pulse, rabbiting away. 

"I think I've made that clear," Geralt said. His voice was low and throaty, almost a purr. Jaskier had to fight not to flush.

"I don't think you have," he said, and Geralt growled, released him.

"It wasn't  _ that _ bad of an apology," he said.

"It was pretty bad," Jaskier said. "If I didn't know that it was your second ever, I would have been insulted."

"It wasn't--" Geralt cut himself off and looked down. When he looked back up, it was piercingly direct. "I apologized, Jaskier. What else do you want me to say?"

Jaskier leaned back. "Tell me you missed me."

" _ Jaskier _ ," Geralt groaned.

"I'm serious, Geralt. You were locked in a dungeon the whole time, my company can't have been worse in comparison." He did this every time, asked for more than Geralt could give. But it was the only way to get  _ anything  _ from Geralt, so he would keep asking. 

Geralt didn't reach out to him again, but he said, "Don't ask stupid questions," which was almost as good.

Jaskier fought a grin. "Don't go getting all sappy on me, witcher, you have a reputation to protect."

Geralt's gaze was warm, an almost physical weight. "I missed you, Jaskier."

"Of course you did," Jaskier said, ignoring his own foolish grin, the warmth in his chest. "I'm a delight and I improve your life immeasurably."

Geralt grunted, but that was nothing like a denial.

Jaskier wanted, very badly, to kiss him. He also wanted to tell Geralt to go fuck himself. What he wanted, most of all, was clarity. He wanted to know what he was getting into, whether they were going anywhere but Kaer Morhen. But then, he'd always hated boredom -- if he could understand Geralt, would he love him so much?

Jaskier stopped wondering when a man tripped and dumped his ale in Jaskier's lap. "Gods and mothers," he yelped, trying to brush the ale off but mostly just succeeding in spreading it around. As the man apologized and looked for a cloth, Jaskier looked up and saw Geralt watching him, eyes warm.

Tongue-tied, he managed to say, "You think we've given them enough time?"

"It'll have to be," Geralt said, "you can't sit around looking like you pissed yourself."

"No, walking around looking like I pissed myself will be much better."

"As you say," Geralt said, standing.

Jaskier waved the man away, and as they walked back to camp he found himself something close to  _ happy _ .

\--

They were only a few miles from Kaer Morhen, the keep rising ragged out of the mountains, when the hushed conversation Yennefer and Geralt were having increased rapidly in volume. "-- then you're a fool and you deserve the horrible death you have coming!" Yennefer seemed to realize how loud she'd gotten only when Ciri and Jaskier stopped and stared. She didn't flush; as far as Jaskier could tell, Yennefer was incapable of embarrassment. Instead she snapped her mouth shut, grabbed a rock from the road and strode over to Ciri, her fist shining with magic.

"If you need me, ever, for anything, you call me," she said, folding the stone into Ciri's hand and cupping her face with the other hand. "Your control is growing. Keep doing the exercises I showed you, and if you're ever in trouble, or lonely, or need help, or just to see someone who isn't a  _ man _ ," her voice dripped poison, "I am only a call away. Hold the stone and speak my name and I will come to you. You understand?"

Ciri nodded, then burst out, "I'll miss you." Yennefer smiled, eyes glittering with tears, and kissed her hard on the forehead. 

Then she opened a portal with a flick of her wrist. Before she stepped through, she looked at Jaskier. "Come find me someday, bard."

"Give Tissaia my greetings," he said, uncomfortably aware he would miss her. If anyone had asked him a year ago if he could ever miss her, he would have laughed in their face, but here he was.

"I will," she said, then looked at Geralt with dark fury. Without another word, she stepped through the portal, and when it snapped shut behind her, Jaskier's ears popped.

After a long pause, Ciri said, "What did you  _ say _ ?"

"The wrong thing," Geralt grunted, and loosed Roach, slapping her rump to send her ambling up the path before them at a swift walk.

" _ Clearly _ ," Jaskier said, "and before you take it out on me again, remember that you're a role model now."

"You are," Ciri said, blinking doe eyes, straight-faced. 

Geralt grunted again, striding past them. "Wasn't going to."

Jaskier and Ciri traded glances and continued after him. Jaskier kept his thoughts to himself, exquisitely aware of how it had gone the last time Yennefer had left Geralt. He wasn't quite sure whether their failure to reconcile would ease the sting this time or worsen it. Either way, he didn't want to offer his own head for biting off. 

When they reached the gates of Kaer Morhen, they were open, and an older man, straight backed and gray haired, stood holding Roach's reins. 

"Geralt," he called, "you've brought me trouble, haven't you?"

Geralt greeted him with a hug, firm and strong. Vesemir, Jaskier thought. The closest thing Geralt had to family.

It was about time Jaskier met him.


	6. Kaer Morhen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks, as always, to B, who made this better, rather against my will.

Kaer Morhen was beautiful, if you liked ruins and dying things and the grandeur of the past. Luckily, Jaskier did, though he was less fond of drafts and spiders and salted meat. The closest Jaskier had come to anything like Kaer Morhen previously had been Dol Blathanna, though Dol Blathanna had been filled with furious not-yet-ghosts. Kaer Morhen was not filled with anything, though the training Vesemir and Geralt had immediately started Ciri on seemed likely to fill it with shouting.

It was a little boring, if Jaskier was being honest; Vesemir was not quite terrifying and not quite anything else, and Geralt seemed to be so wrapped up in creating a training schedule for Ciri that he didn't have time for Jaskier, except at meals. 

\--

After two days, Jaskier was about ready to leave. There was nothing to _do_ , there was no one to talk to. He was _bored_ , and he wanted to stay for Ciri, who had already lost too much in her short life, but he also wanted to eat something made with more than four ingredients, maybe perform in front of an adoring audience.

At dinner he found himself staring at Yennefer's stone, where Ciri wore it around her neck. The stone, on its leather thong, had fallen out across the table when she'd slumped over to sleep on her arm. If he called Yennefer, she would _probably_ take him away before she called him an idiot, if only because she was petty enough to want to take something from Geralt.

Geralt followed Jaskier's gaze and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You miss her?"

Jaskier frowned, surprised to find that he did. He hadn't realized that was part of what he was feeling, but he missed her dearly, missed snipping at her, missed the rhythm they'd found. His mornings weren't the same, without her. "It seems I do," Jaskier said, bewildered. "Did she do magic on me? Geralt, do your witchering, am I spelled to have terrible sense?"

Geralt sighed, but it was fond. "You've always had terrible sense, Jaskier."

"You don't have to say everything that comes to your mind, Geralt," Jaskier said loftily. "Oh, I hope she found Tissaia. Do you think Ciri would mind if I called her?"

"Tissaia?" Geralt said, and Jaskier was talking before he realized that the question meant he knew more about Yennefer than Geralt did. It was a strange feeling.

"Yennefer's mentor," he'd said, before he'd realized. "The reason she was at Sodden Hill. Yennefer has some delightfully mixed feelings about the woman. I asked her once if she _liked_ Tissaia, and she refused to talk to me for the rest of the day." He found he was smiling at the memory. 

"That sounds like a yes," Geralt said. "You really saved her life?"

"Are you doubting me?" Jaskier asked, feigning insult. When Geralt raised his eyebrows, Jaskier relaxed back into his seat. "I did, yes. Well, I don't know, she might not have died without me, but she was in a bad way. I got to dump water on her."

"And she didn't kill you?" Geralt asked, disbelieving.

"Like I said, a bad way. I saw the magic she did from an overlook, didn't realize it was just one mage. The size of it..." Jaskier trailed off, thinking of how fire had consumed the forest and the army within it. The screams he'd heard. "If I let her knew she scared me, she'd win," he said finally. "And then she'd be insufferable."

Geralt laughed, just loud enough that Ciri stirred. When she yawned and sat up, Jaskier smiled at her. "Good morning, Ciri. How's your neck? I can't believe you spent the night down here."

"What?" she said, rising to her feet and looking frantically at the window in the same movement. When she saw it was still dark, she sank back down, yawning again. "I hate you. Is there any more bread?"

Grinning, Jaskier pulled a hunk off the loaf and buttered it for her before passing it over. 

"How long," she broke to yawn again, "how long was I asleep?"

"Not long," Geralt said, but he was staring at Jaskier, a crease between his brows, evaluating. "Plenty of time for another exercise if you don't think you'll be able to sleep after your nap."

She yawned again, pointedly showing Geralt the half-chewed bread in her mouth.

\--

Each night, Ciri fell asleep in her dinner, exhausted after hours of study and training, and each night, Geralt carried her up to her room. The first few nights, Jaskier would stay until Geralt came back down and sit there, feeling increasingly awkward as the Geralt and Vesemir caught up. It wasn't anything they _did;_ there was no shutting him out of the conversation, no asking him to leave, but they had so much history that it was hard to touch. Jaskier had thought twenty-two years was a long time to know someone, but he was quickly becoming aware that twenty-two years, to a witcher, was not what it was to him. 

He took himself to bed early, fully aware that he was the outsider here.

After a week, Geralt followed him up. At the door to the room Jaskier had claimed -- no holes in the walls, and with a bed that wasn't rotting, it was one of the better available -- he leaned, frowning. "You don't have to leave so quickly," he said.

Jaskier started getting changed for bed, not really wanting to start a conversation about his _feelings_ and why he retreated each night. "I don't _have_ to do anything," he said, pulling his shirt over his head and reaching for the nightshirt that he'd scrounged up on the second day. One nice thing about being off the road? Laundry. Changes of clothes. _Baths_. Actually, there were many nice things about being off the road, not least that his blisters were finally healing. He was still searching for a pumice stone to take off the callouses on his heels, but he held out hope. "I'm both an _incredibly_ popular bard, and a viscount. The world is my oyster."

"And here you are." Geralt's tone was unreadable, and when Jaskier glanced over, Geralt was staring intently at him. Puzzling him out, perhaps.

 _Well, puzzle this_ , he thought, pulling his pants off. Even if Geralt hadn't seen him dishabille many times, the nightshirt covered everything important. Still, he thought Geralt's gaze lingered on his thighs for a moment longer than was innocent. "Here I am. For now, at least. I might head out before snow locks me in."

Geralt's mouth twisted. "Winter comes early here. You'd have to leave soon."

As out of place as Jaskier felt, he didn't want to leave just yet. It had always been a weakness of his, running the second things got boring or uncomfortable. But leaving Ciri to winter with just the two witchers seemed like a cruelty she would not soon forget, and he couldn't even promise her a magic rock to summon him.

And Ciri was wearing Yennefer's stone as a necklace, wrapped in copper wire to hold it to the leather thong Geralt had found for her. She would be hurt if he left.

"Well," Jaskier said, coming to the door to close it. Geralt didn't budge, and they stood close enough that he could feel the heat rolling off Geralt, palpable in the crisp early autumn air. "Not so soon that I have to decide tonight."

Geralt grunted something that might have been agreement, and might have been dissent.

"Either come in, or get out," Jaskier said. "You're not actually a cat, no matter your eyes, so you should have better manners than one."

Geralt's mouth pulled up at one side, a smirk that always turned Jaskier's knees weak and wobbly. "I wouldn't put money on that."

"Well, you hate baths as much as one," Jaskier said, found himself leaning in. What was he _doing_? "Go on, before I scruff you, you're letting all the warm air out."

"Never thought of you as early to bed," Geralt said. "Are you getting old, Jaskier?"

Everything warm and languid in him went sharp and stung. "As a matter of fact," Jaskier said, closing the door firmly in Geralt's face. He dropped his forehead against it, ready to wait until he heard Geralt move away.

Instead, Geralt said, loud enough to carry clearly through the thin wood, "You have to stop running some time. I should know."

"No one _asked_ you," Jaskier said, fully aware of how petulant he sounded, and retreated to his bed in a huff.

It was no worse than he deserved, for loving a man who didn't age.

\--

The next day, Vesemir found him in the library. The texts were almost universally dry as dust and coated with literal dust to boot, but even the most boring description of a monster was a description of a monster, and Jaskier _did_ believe in doing his research. It was how this had all started, after all.

"You'd prefer the Bucholdt texts," Vesemir said. "About the only witcher who ever knew how to write like it wasn't a chore."

"Why not give him to Ciri, then?" Jaskier asked, blinking up at him. His eyes hurt from trying to decipher the cramped handwriting. Witchers had many strengths, but writing was certainly not one of them.

"Doesn't do to make things too easy," Vesemir said, sitting down across from Jaskier with a groan. "She wants to be a witcher, she has to succeed at everything she sets her mind to."

"Does she want to be a witcher?" Jaskier asked. It wasn't something they'd discussed on the road, though he wouldn't be surprised. She'd never be a sorceress like Yennefer and she desperately wanted power she could harness. Witchers were more individually powerful than almost anyone; a frightened girl who wanted not to be afraid anymore could do worse.

Vesemir grimaced, scratched his chin. The stubble scraped audibly against his nails and he frowned again. "Gotta shave," he muttered. "She won't go through the Trial of the Grasses," he continued. "Even if it wasn't lost, I've sent enough boys to their deaths. Don't need to kill a princess, too. She wanted to know how to fight, and this is the only way I know how to teach."

Jaskier nodded. Witcher training, even without the mutations, would make Ciri a force to be reckoned with. Combined with her own magic, Ciri wouldn't need to fear much. "I've been thinking about a song," he said.

"Do you think of ought else?" Vesemir asked, but there was no cruelty in his tone.

"Rarely," Jaskier said, lying gleefully through his teeth. "If I go too long without a new song, my fans will wither away."

"I'll pity them, then, with you locked up here with us all winter," Vesemir said.

"I don't know that I'll stay the winter," Jaskier said, trying to keep his voice casual. "I was just helping make sure Ciri got here safe, I don't know that I'm needed for much longer."

"Oh?" Vesemir cocked his eyebrow. "Well, you'll have to decide soon. Winter comes early in the mountains, and once it snows there's no getting down the pass."

Jaskier rubbed his fist against his mouth, then sneezed, the dust from the books thick in his nose. It was getting a bit heavy-handed, this clock ticking down. Had Geralt enlisted Vesemir's aid? But no, that didn't sound like him at all.

When he recovered, Vesemir had risen but not left. "You came a long way, just to see her safe, when Geralt could have done so on his own. He's one of the best I've ever trained." Vesemir paused, as if waiting for Jaskier to speak. When he didn't, just blinked up at the other man, Vesemir continued. "It would be nice to have music this winter. It can be quiet here, and the nights are long."

\--

Geralt and Vesemir kept Ciri as busy with training as if they expected the Black Knight to ride up to their gates any moment, though there hadn't been problems with pursuit since they'd dumped Ciri's cloak on the road. Jaskier understood Geralt's worry, of course, and Vesemir had the habits of many years, impossible to break, but he also understood Ciri's exasperation, so when she knocked on his door early one morning about two weeks after their arrival, he yawned and got dressed and went hiding with her.

He left a note for Geralt, of course. There were monsters in the mountains, and if Jaskier got eaten he wanted someone to know where to look for the bones. 

They snuck out the gate, the last stars of morning just fading into the pre-dawn gray, and Ciri led him to a watchtower she'd seen on the long runs Geralt took her on. It was up a brutally steep climb, and the tower itself was crumbled and fallen, the bones of a long-dead witcher fallen at the door. Ciri had to goad him hard to get him to climb the ancient wooden scaffolding, but once he had, he was grateful.

The views from Kaer Morhen were almost universally exceptional, but this was beyond even those from the keep proper. The watchtower looked over the entire length and breadth of the valley, and the sunrise was spilling down the mountains, lighting them with pink and gold alpenglow. Deer moved below them, a herd coming to the edge of the lake and drinking. The birds were singing, a cacophony so loud and close that it was like being in Novigrad again, with less smell of shit. Something tight in his chest loosened.

Jaskier sighed happily. "The only thing that would make this better is something hot to drink."

Ciri grinned at him, glowing in the warm light of sunrise, pale hair painted pink, and pulled a heavy leather canteen from her belt. When she passed it to him, it radiated warmth and he curled his fingers around it with another sigh before working the cap off and sniffing it. "This isn't some horrible witcher concoction, is it?" he asked, though it didn't smell like one. It smelled like lemon. He'd helped Geralt make his potions before, or been in the same room anyway, and had no interest in drinking something with ghoul blood in it.

"Lemongrass," she said. "If you're not going to have any, pass it back, my fingers are cold."

"And who decided to come out without gloves," he teased, taking a quick sip and handing over. The lemongrass was light and tart and perfect, an excellent compliment to the view. "Did you want me for a reason, or just a break from being taught things?"

"A break," Ciri said, holding the canteen open under her nose so the steam rose up around her face. "My bruises have bruises and if Geralt asks me the difference between an al-ghoul and a ghoul and disarms me while I'm trying to answer one more time, I _will_ scream."

"If you did one of those ground cracking screams, it would probably make him stop for at least an hour," Jaskier said, snagging the canteen back and taking another sip. Sitting still, even in his jacket, it was just a little too cold for comfort. The wood below them was stealing his warmth and the sweat from the climb was cold under his arms and in the backs of his knees.

He would need to leave soon, if he wanted to, but it was hard to think of such things as the world turned from pink to gold, and the girl beside him grumbled and snatched back the canteen. "If I lose control," she said, "he'll make me train a million times harder."

"I didn't say lose control," Jaskier said. "Didn't Yennefer teach you how to do it on purpose?"

Ciri made a face. "She taught me how not to do it on accident, but it's kind of hard to practice on purpose."

Jaskier thought about it, really thought about it. Splitting the land, killing everything around. He'd seen her mother destroy a room and fly, and from the sounds of it, Ciri was more powerful by far. "I suppose it would be," he said. "Though this seems like the place to do it. You'd only be bothering the birds."

"I don't want to think about it right now," Ciri said, not upset but clear, and Jaskier smiled.

"Then we won't. Do you think Vesemir has any bodice rippers hidden away in that library of his? A man cannot live on technical treatises alone."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Ciri said, wiggling closer to him so he would sling an arm over her shoulder. She was warm where she pressed into his side. "I think he's secretly a sap, but his mask is pretty good."

"That makes sense, given how Geralt turned out," Jaskier mused.

Ciri giggled. "Can you imagine Geralt reading a romance?"

"I can barely imagine Geralt _reading_ , and I've seen him do it," Jaskier admitted.

"Don't be mean," Ciri said, but she was laughing.

"Please, the man cultivates an image, he knows what he's doing. There's a reason he needed me to make him approachable."

Ciri curled farther into both herself and him, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them. The sun was up, the pale morning light turning her ashen hair almost white. "I'm glad I found him. And Yennefer."

Jaskier petted her hair. "Me too." He paused, thinking. "Have you been talking to Yennefer?"

She looked at him, blue eyes huge and evaluating. "Yes," she said. "Almost every night."

"How is she?" he asked. "Did she find Tissaia?"

Ciri frowned. "Yes. She won't tell me much, so I think something is happening. But she says she's safe, and she keeps giving me new exercises."

What could be happening at Aretuza? Jaskier thought of the mage spy the Nilfgaardians had bragged of, thought of Yennefer trying to root him out. He frowned. "Could I use your stone someday? Give her a call?"

"You have to give it back," Ciri said, but pulled the necklace over her head without hesitation. Jaskier pulled it over his own, aware how bad it would be to lose it.

"Thanks," he said.

They looked out over the valley together, lapsing into a comfortable sort of silence. From this vantage point, it was easy to see both Kaer Morhen proper and the road that led to it, and they watched as a dark shape left the fortress and started down the road, turning off to head to the watchtower.

"It seems we're caught," Jaskier said, and Ciri sighed, but not unhappily.

"Seems so," she said.

Soon, Geralt pulled himself up behind them. When Jaskier just waved at him, Geralt dropped down to sit on Ciri's other side.

"You barricaded my door," he said, and Jaskier could hear the pride in his voice.

"Did it slow you down at all?" Ciri asked, turning her head on her knees.

"Not very much," he said. "Have to teach you how to do it better. Pretty impressed you managed to do it without waking me, though."

Jaskier couldn't see Ciri's smile, but he could feel her little wriggle of delight.

They didn't leave until the sun had burned off all the mist in the valley.

\--

Jaskier held the stone in front of his eye, trying to figure out exactly how one used it. It was so clearly just a rock, though Ciri had wrapped it in copper wire to attach it to the leather thong she wore it on. 

"Yennefer?" he said tentatively, and the stone vibrated in his hand.

"Ciri?" he heard, Yennefer's voice coming from nowhere and everywhere. "Is everything all right? Do you need me to come get you?"

"It's Jaskier," he said before she could get too worked up, and there was a long pause.

"Jaskier," she said. "Is Ciri all right?"

"She's fine," he assured her. "Everything's fine, I just wanted to check in with you. Tissaia?"

Another long pause. "She's fine," Yennefer said eventually.

"Ciri was complaining that you were hiding things," Jaskier said, pacing across the length of his room, keeping the stone before his eyes as if glaring at it would transfer the look to Yennefer. "Do me the courtesy of telling the truth."

Yennefer's harsh laugh washed around him. It was almost comforting. "She's alive. Aretuza is in turmoil, but she won't leave. Some stupid commitment to the cause."

"And you're still there?" he asked, finally sinking down to sit on the edge of his bed.

"I am, more fool me," she said. "I can't talk, Jaskier, I've barely the time for Ciri's calls. I assure you, I'm alive, and none of the cowards here are likely to change that any time soon."

Jaskier sighed. "All right. Give them hell, or whatever it is you mages do to each other."

"Hell is accurate," she said. "We'll meet again, Jaskier."

The stone went dead and cold in his hand once more.

Well, it was more than he'd known before, though it didn't soothe him much. He headed down for the training yard where Ciri was running through drills, Geralt barking corrections. 

"Give her a second," he said to Geralt, and when Ciri frowned over at them, he tossed her her stone. She caught it easily and looped it around her neck once more.

Geralt's eyes tracked the movement. "How's Yennefer?" he asked, voice inscrutable. 

Jaskier shrugged. If Yennefer didn't want Ciri to hear that things were bad at Aretuza, he wasn't going to say as much in front of her. "She's herself," he said. "I fully expect her to prevail over anything in her way."

They both frowned at him for that, but he just smiled and walked away. "As you were, etcetera." 

Geralt, gods bless him, did not let the silence hang long enough for Ciri to act on any suspicious she might have, barking out a command.

\--

The days passed and Jaskier didn't leave, and didn't leave, and kept on not leaving, keeping a close eye on the color of the leaves and how his breath began to billow in front of him at night. He stayed longer each night, understood more of Vesemir's humor each day. Ciri started managing to stay awake through more of dinner, though not always all of it. And then, one day while Jaskier was staring nervously at the bright orange and red leaves on the trees, he saw a horse coming up the winding path towards Kaer Morhen. 

He squinted towards the rider, saw the twin swords on his back, and relaxed. The Black Knight hadn't managed to cut his way through the North and find Ciri despite their efforts. It was just another witcher. Jaskier trotted over the parapets until he stood over the yard where Geralt was correcting Ciri's form as she swung at him.

"Don't drop your tip!" Geralt yelled, slapping the end of her sword into the dirt. "Keep your feet under you!"

"Geralt!" Jaskier called down, interrupting. Geralt looked up at him and Ciri lunged, abandoning her sword and arms spread wide, and got him around the knees, taking him to the ground. Geralt grunted and she clambered up him, raising her arms and cheering.

"Little cheater," Geralt said, so fond that Jaskier's heart hurt. He hadn't known Geralt had so much love in him, hadn't even suspected. And there was no one more deserving of it than Ciri. He was glad they had found each other. 

"You always tell me to take advantages as they come," Ciri said, putting on a prissy princess voice as she got to her feet and offered him her hand. He took it and yanked her back into the dirt, mussed her hair.

"I do, at that," he said. "Jaskier, what is it?"

"A friend, I assume," he said. "Or at least I hope so. A witcher, certainly."

Geralt got to his feet. "Ciri, come see who it is with me. It's time you learned some manners."

Geralt hid his grin as Ciri squawked in outrage, but she went with him to the gate. Jaskier watched from the parapets as the rider grew closer and Geralt raised the portcullis. 

"Lambert," he called, "you got uglier since last I saw you."

The rider made a rude gesture, finally drawing close enough that Jaskier could see his face. Dark hair, cropped close, no scars that were so bad that Jaskier could see them from this distance. The dark hair surprised him -- he'd assumed all witchers went white with the mutations, although on reflection, Vesemir still had some pepper in his salt. 

"Oh yes," Ciri said, loud enough for Jaskier to hear, "I'm the one that needs manners."

Geralt swatted her. "Go get Vesemir. He hates to be caught napping by new arrivals."

"He's all the way in the library!" Ciri said. "There's no way I can get there before the rider gets to you."

Geralt hummed an agreement. "Better run then. Take the direct route."

"You're a _sadist_ ," she informed him, then took off running.

Jaskier smiled to see her go, grinning despite her words. When they'd first met, he never would have guessed how easily she would laugh, how much joy she was capable of. He wished Yennefer could see how Ciri bloomed in safety. Speaking through the crystal wasn't at all the same.

When the rider -- Lambert, that was what Geralt had called him -- reached the gate, he swung down from his horse and met Geralt with a hug. "You've survived another year, then, old man," he said.

"Don't sound so surprised," Geralt said, examining Lambert when he pulled back. "That's a new scar."

"Only to you," Lambert said, and came the rest of the way through the gate. "A harpy, two years back. Are you going to tell me who that was that ran off?"

"Ciri," Geralt said. "My ward. And that's Jaskier, up there."

Jaskier waved, but Lambert ignored him, staring at Geralt with a perfectly understandable look of shock. "Your ward?" he said. " _You_ have a ward. Did some peasant try to pass their child off as payment for services rendered and you were too much of a bleeding heart to say no?"

"Does that happen?" Jaskier called, working his way around to the crumbling stairs.

"More than you'd think," Lambert said, finally seeming to notice him. "Given how much they hate us, it doesn't make me think they're good parents."

"Maybe they're just bad kids," Geralt drawled, and Lambert slugged him hard in the shoulder, unsmiling. "No, that's not how I got Ciri."

Lambert rolled his eyes when it became clear Geralt wasn't going to elaborate, which made Jaskier pretty sure Geralt was doing it on purpose. "You, Jaskier, you know the story?"

"As it happens, I do," Jaskier said. "And I'm even good at telling it."

He did so, walking with Lambert to the stables. He was almost done when Ciri appeared at the door, breathing heavily, hand pressed to her side. She looked as little a princess as Jaskier had ever seen her, and they'd spent a month on the road together. Lambert swept into an ostentatious bow, curry comb in hand. "Princess," he said, and Ciri blushed bright red.

"Not anymore," she said. "Can't be a princess of a place that doesn't exist."

"Oh, if we let people tell us our titles don't exist, we'd have to be witchers of no school," Lambert said. "How are you liking Kaer Morhen, princess? Not up to your royal standards, I assume." He started brushing his horse out again. Jaskier wondered if all witchers loved their horses more than themselves.

It seemed likely.

\--

That night, dinner was different. Geralt and Vesemir had gone easy on Ciri, giving her the afternoon off, so they could catch up with Lambert, and by the time dinner started they'd managed to remember they didn't actually like each other all that much. Even if he left, Ciri wouldn't be bored.

"Lambert," Geralt said, "will you spar with Ciri tomorrow? Don't want to give her all my bad habits."

"Yes," Vesemir said, "much better to give her some of Lambert's as well."

Lambert tore off a piece of his bread and threw it at Vesemir. Vesemir batted it away with a harsh chuckle. 

"I'd be honored," Lambert said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Don't beat me too badly, your highness."

"I will, if you don't stop calling me that," Ciri said loftily.

Geralt and Jaskier traded fond glances over her head. She was a far cry from the terrified creature she had been, and it was a joy to see.

After dinner, Geralt touched Jaskier's wrist. "Walk with me," he said, so Jaskier waited while Ciri hugged Geralt fiercely and went to her room. Vesemir sent her up with a stack of books, but based on the way she was drooping, Jaskier suspected she wouldn't be doing much reading.

When she had disappeared up the stairs, Geralt tilted his head and Jaskier followed him out to the yard, and then up the stairs to walk the walls. The evening air was crisp, not quite cold while they were moving but would be if they stood still. Jaskier thought dismally of the road back to Oxenfurt. By himself, it would be a slog at best.

When Geralt stopped, they were looking out over the lake, the moon heavy and full in the early evening sky. It reflected in the lake, bright and round. Geralt leaned forward on his elbows, the silver light of the moon turning his profile into something beyond human, hard edged and untouchable. "You must be getting bored," he said, his voice the flat, even tone he used when he was trying not to give anything away.

It was true; Jaskier was used to many more demands on his time, and many more people to make demands _of_ , when he had little to do. His teaching job gave him much more to do, and still, he'd gotten bored and left. "I'm perfectly capable of amusing myself, Geralt," he said, biting back on his instinct towards defensiveness. "Have you _seen_ the library here?"

"I have," Geralt said, turning his face towards Jaskier. The silver light of the moon glinted off his teeth, his smile, his glittering cat's eyes. "I brought many of the books here. Even wrote a few."

"All this time together and I still haven't taught you the joy of good writing," Jaskier sighed. "Did you know they were all so dull before you made the trip?" Jaskier leaned on the wall next to him. In the cool evening air, the heat Geralt threw off was palpable. Jaskier had to resist the urge to lean into him, but it was old habit at this point.

"Most witcher books are," Geralt said mildly.

"And you didn't think to bring a romance or two?" Jaskier laughed, amused at the idea of Geralt glowering down at a romance. 

"You could write some," Geralt said. "Liven up our library. I'm sure Vesemir would appreciate it, those long winter nights."

"And you?" Jaskier asked. "Would you appreciate it?" Before the moment could hang and become heavy with meaning he hadn't intended to give it, he continued, almost flustered. "The fruits of my labors are valuable, you know. You could be taking advantage of me and my fame, Geralt."

Geralt chuckled, and his voice was warm and smooth. "If I take advantage of you, you'll know it."

Luckily, the dark covered Jaskier's violent blush. "I suppose that's what witchers are known for, isn't it? Though you're not very good at it."

Geralt snorted softly. "You don't have to talk so much, Jaskier."

"Wow," Jaskier said. "It's like you don't know me at all."

"Come swimming with me tomorrow."

"Oh, now I'm certain," Jaskier said. "Are you a doppler? Are you _possessed_? There's no world in which I go swimming in something that looks as cold as that."

"I'd appreciate your company," Geralt said, eyes half-lidded, expression soft and amused even in the harsh light of the full moon.

"Oh, stop playing dirty," Jaskier said. "Fine."

Geralt peeled away from the wall and began ambling back towards the main building. His body language was different here, loose and relaxed. It was easy to let Geralt walk him back to his room, easy to feel soothed and settled by Geralt's comfort.

\--

The lake was startlingly beautiful, as most things around Kaer Morhen were. For a crumbling, near abandoned keep, there was no stinting on the scenery. You might freeze to death in the winter, but the view!

"You're sure there's no Drowners?" Jaskier asked as Geralt led him to the dock. "You know my feelings on Drowners, Geralt. I'm not a fan."

"We're less than a mile from a witcher's stronghold, and you think there are Drowners about?" Geralt said.

"It's not like there's a lot of you around, Geralt, it's a valid worry!"

"There's no Drowners. I took Ciri down here a week ago to make sure, and teach her how to fight on a monster that doesn't fight back very hard."

"Doesn't fight back very hard," Jaskier repeated, mocking. "Not all of us are good with a sword, Geralt!"

"Lucky for you, I am," he said, and they reached the dock. It was sturdier than Jaskier had feared, clearly well-maintained. And if they were maintaining the dock, probably they were also clearing out any Drowners that appeared. And, Jaskier supposed, there weren't a lot of people around to, well, drown, and turn into monsters. Grudgingly, he decided to be a good sport.

"So why did you want me to come with you again? I'm not swimming in this lake, it's freezing." He dipped a hand in to verify, so that Geralt couldn't lie to him and say the water was fine. But no, it was ice-melt, and it felt like it. It was so cold the bones of his hand ached, even after he yanked his hand back out, swearing under his breath.

Geralt pulled his shirt off, and Jaskier lost track of his thoughts for a moment. The man had some truly impressive musculature. Jaskier would rather like to lick it.

"Need you to guard my clothes," he said. "Lambert's prone to childish pranks. Might get it into his mind to steal them." He paused thoughtfully while undoing the ties to his pants. Jaskier unabashedly fastened his gaze to where Geralt's hands worked. "Ciri's likely to join him, if he asks. Couldn't catch them both if they ran in opposite directions."

"So I'm guarding your dignity?" Jaskier asked, as Geralt shoved his pants down and stepped out of them. He didn't feel like he was helping Geralt's dignity. He didn't much feel like he was capable of guarding anything, as blank as his mind had gone.

Geralt picked up his clothes and folded them, before he turned to set them on the dock, and before Jaskier could properly ogle him, his eyes caught on the new scar on Geralt's thigh. Despite Yennefer's efforts the ghoul bite had healed poorly, and it was still a furious red, keloids pushing up from under the skin like they were striving to escape. It was like he'd been dunked in the lake, how quickly his libido dampened. Geralt had come very close to dying, with that bite, and Jaskier hadn't been there.

Not, he realized, that he could have done much, if he had. But it was the principle of the thing.

Geralt made sure his sword was set next to the clothes, loose in its sheath.

"You said there were no Drowners," Jaskier reminded him, watching that. 

"No Drowners," Geralt agreed. "But sometimes, the trolls come down, and it's best to be prepared."

"Trolls?" Jaskier asked, voice pitching up into a screech, but Geralt just grinned and dived into the water, a pale knife of muscle cutting through the water.

He struck out across the length of the lake, his form clean, moving quickly. Watching him, Jaskier sighed helplessly and sat next to Geralt's clothes. He wished he had his lute, but as it was, he had nothing to do but watch Geralt swim into the distance. He wondered if that was the point; Geralt wasn't prone to making up excuses to have his company, but Jaskier was realizing there were whole aspects of Geralt he'd never learned. It was disquieting, being here, seeing this side of Geralt that he hadn't known existed. Had it, before Ciri?

It wasn't a huge lake; if there'd been more water around, it likely would have been considered a pond, but it was still almost ten minutes before Geralt started growing larger again. No trolls had come, but Jaskier still warmed himself with thoughts of petty revenge. Frogs in Geralt's bed, perhaps. 

When Geralt reached the dock, he pulled himself out, shedding water in great sheets. His white hair, plastered against his skull, looked almost translucent, but Jaskier couldn't admire that. He was too busy admiring Geralt's chest, which was dripping. And once Jaskier looked at that, it was impossible to stop himself from following the trail of the water down, and down, and then he had to drag his gaze up, cheeks flaming, hoping Geralt hadn't noticed.

He clearly had, and he was smirking. "My clothes, Jaskier," he said, warm and almost flirtatious. Flustered, Jaskier threw Geralt's shirt at him.

Jaskier had vaguely known, though not quite believed, that Geralt was good with women when he wanted to be. Obviously, it wasn't only women, which was more of a surprise than felt fair after twenty years of friendship. "Did you bring me out here to seduce me?" he blurted.

"Why?" Geralt asked, toweling his hair dry with his shirt rather than putting it on. He was just so _naked_. More naked than anyone had ever been before. It was _obscene_. "Is it working?"

"Gods, yes," Jaskier said, "but if we're being honest with each other, so would anything. I don't have a lot of pride, Geralt, so you'd best not be mocking me."

"I'm not," Geralt said, pulling his pants on, which was both a relief and a tragedy. If they were going to have a _conversation_ , Jaskier needed to be able to concentrate on more than how much he wanted to lick the lake water off of Geralt's legs. On the other hand, he wasn't sure when he would get the chance to ogle again, and goodness was there a lot that needed to be ogled.

"What are you doing, then?" Jaskier asked, almost breathless.

Geralt grunted and walked over to him, bare feet leaving wet prints on the wood of the dock, damp hair dripping over his bare chest, and cupped Jaskier's skull with one large hand. His lips were cool from the lake, but his tongue, when he slipped it past Jaskier's lips, was hot. He kissed Jaskier gently, thoroughly, and when he pulled back, his hand slipped down from skull to neck, thumb drawing small circles behind Jaskier's ear.

"That," Jaskier said, a bit hoarse, "does _not_ answer my question."

"Jaskier," Geralt said, and he was warm and fond and Jaskier had wanted this so badly, for so long, that he didn't know what to do. "You talk too much."

Jaskier stared at him, his golden eyes, the drops of water rolling down from his hairline, his smile soft and amused and Jaskier lunged at him. If he was going to get his heart broken, he was going to do it right.

\--

Sometime later, pleasantly sore and tired, Jaskier blinked up at the clear blue sky, the wood of the dock digging into his naked back. "If you did this just to get me to stay the winter," he said, "I must admit it was well played."

Geralt groaned and propped himself up on his elbow, staring down at Jaskier. "Is it so hard to believe that I like you?"

"Everyone likes me, Geralt," Jaskier said, "I'm very likable. But this is a bit beyond just caring whether I live or die."

Geralt dropped back down flat on his back and they weren't quite touching at any point, but Geralt's hand was so close to Jaskier's that Jaskier felt it when Geralt flexed his fingers out, a brush of pinky on pinky. "I went to your birthday party," he pointed out. "I don't do that for just anyone."

"That was over ten years ago," Jaskier said. "And you disappeared for a year, after the last time I saw you." When Geralt sighed, Jaskier waved a hand vaguely in the air before him. "I'm not mad, Geralt, I _know_ you, I know what to expect from you. There's a reason I haven't... made a move. But _I_ am not a witcher. I don't have the sort of time you do, and I'm not inclined to spend what I do have as ... oh, I don't know. I don't know what to think, Geralt. Why now?"

"Well," Geralt said. "It took you a while to grow on me."

When Jaskier squawked with outrage, Geralt laughed, low and not un-kind. When Jaskier subsided, he continued, "Remember your first song about me? That awful little piece about Dol Blathanna?"

"Toss a Coin to Your Witcher," Jaskier said, offended, sitting up and reaching for his clothes, "was my first masterpiece and made us both _quite_ a lot of money, if you don't recall."

Geralt pulled him back down. "Respect," he said, low and measured, and it had been over twenty years, but Jaskier had no doubt that these words were the same, an exact quote, "doesn't make history."

"Ah," Jaskier breathed. "Well, I suppose I can see how that might be off-putting."

"I don't pretend to be perfect," Geralt said, ignored Jaskier when he muttered, " _Good_ ," and continued easily. "But I haven't led you on, and certainly not for the hell of it."

Jaskier thought it over for a moment, then turned and kissed Geralt once more. It was the sort of thing he could see himself doing often, now that he could. "I can accept that," he said, and Geralt smiled up at him.

\--

If Geralt hadn't wanted to be pestered, he'd picked the wrong man to make his suit to. Jaskier dwelled, and Jaskier thought, and the next time they were alone, which was not so long, Jaskier said, "You never answered my question. Why now?"

Geralt's mouth twisted. "Are you really going to do this?"

"It's like you don't know me at _all_ ," Jaskier complained. "And start the fire while you're buying time, it's cold in here."

Geralt rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, lighting the hearth. When Jaskier went to sit by it, Geralt didn't follow, staying instead at the edge of the light, so that shadows danced over his face. Now he was familiar. Now he was a stranger. "You won't like my answer," he said.

"You say a great deal of things I don't like, and in this case it actually matters," Jaskier said.

Sighing heavily, Geralt stepped forward into the light. "It's not like I kept a journal," he said. "1240, met an insufferable bard. Can't lose him. 1250, the bard remains insufferable, dragged me into having a fate."

"1249, and you like your fate," Jaskier corrected and Geralt rolled his eyes.

"1249, and the bard set me up for something I wouldn't know was good for another twelve years. 1252, the bard drags me to a party where everyone involved does their best to humiliate me. 1256, the bard, after abandoning the road for years to court a married woman, discovers that she will not marry him, and nearly gets himself killed with his own stupid selfishness."

"For not keeping a journal," Jaskier said stiffly, "you know your dates quite well."

"Because I care about you, Jaskier, and even when I couldn't stand you for more than a month at a time, I enjoyed that time." Geralt's growl was low and harsh, and he stepped forward with each word until he was looming over Jaskier's chair, hands braced on the chair arms, nose inches from Jaskier's. "But gods all, I was not about to hook myself to a man who still acted like a child."

Geralt had been right; Jaskier didn't like this at all. "And what changed? _Why now?"_

The tension went out of Geralt and he stepped away, back stiff. " _You_ did," he said. "Would you write _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ today?"

"No, it's terrible lyrically," Jaskier said, "can't believe I used 'he can't be bleat' in my chorus."

For the first time, Geralt looked angry, not just intense. "Are you missing the point on purpose?"

"Obviously!" Jaskier cried, standing to pace. "Obviously, Filavandral deserved better! But I was _eighteen--"_

"You weren't eighteen when you wished a woman into your bed, wished a man _dead_ for being a rival," Geralt interrupted. His voice gentled a little. "Would you have had me take and reject you, over and over? Do you _envy_ what I have with Yennefer, that we cannot make peace between ourselves?"

 _That_ was a point; Jaskier hadn't thought of his wishes since he'd made them, had watched the way Geralt and Yennefer came together and clawed apart with a sort of impatient incredulousness. _Talk to each other before you fall into bed_ , he'd thought, and here Geralt was, doing just that. A little belated, but the principle stood. Carefully, he said, "I can't change the past."

Geralt nodded, sharply. "I know, and I don't ask you to. But you asked. That's why. I haven't..." Even now Geralt had to pause and build himself up to admitting fault. "I haven't always treated you well. But, Jaskier, you haven't always acquitted yourself well either."

Jaskier thought that one over. Finally, he said, "I can accept that. But, Geralt?"

"Yes?" Geralt said. The tension had gone out of him, not fully, but enough that his shoulders had dropped from battle-readiness to mere good posture.

"Next time, telling me might be more effective."

"And you'll listen?" Geralt asked, clearly dubious.

"I'm not promising anything," Jaskier said. "But I do value your opinion, you know. You might try expressing it. It can't go any _worse_."

"Hm. Fine."

They stared at each other for a moment. Jaskier's blood was still high, but he wasn't angry anymore. "Do we get to kiss and make up, now?" he asked hopefully.

As it turned out, they did.

\--

The snow, light as it was, turned Kaer Morhen into a fairy tale castle. It was so beautiful it took him almost a full minute to realize what it meant; he was stuck here. The winter had come while he wasn't looking, and now there was no leaving, no running. 

It didn't bother him so much as he had expected. For once, his feet weren't itching for the road, for the next adventure. He was perfectly happy with the one before him, and the man beside him. He had a lot to learn and a lot of time to do it in.


End file.
